


Indelible Incidents

by scifigrl47



Series: The Foodieverse [19]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Background Carol and Jess, Bad choices made among friends, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, Tony needs to drink less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-01-06 15:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18391154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: Tony and Rhodey hit the town, and the town hits back.Tony knows better than to make important decisions while under the influence of alcohol, but the problem is, when he's drunk, he kind of forgets that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [copperbadge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/gifts).



> Thanks, as always, to Copperbadge, for letting me play around in the Foodieverse.
> 
> Don't worry, Sam, there won't be any extra characters added this time. 
> 
> For at least the first five pages.
> 
> Warning notes: This story deals with drinking to excess, and the consequences of doing that. The story takes place in the aftermath. No one is ever in danger, they are among friends, they do not drive while under the influence, do not cheat on their significant others, they do not harm anyone else. But they do drink a lot and do dumb stuff. If that's going to bother you, this might be a good one to skip.

“Where’s Steve?”

Tony finished wiping down his station with his usual obsessive attention to detail before he straightened up. “Still down in Washington with Isaiah,” he said, frowning at a smudge on the gleaming metal countertop. He bent over it, scrubbing with more enthusiasm than the small spot really warranted. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Pepper looked over the rim of her coffee cup at him. “He’s coming back,” she said, with the flat voice of a woman who was not interested in humoring his melodramatic ass. “I thought you said you were going out with Rhodey tonight.”

“I am going out with Rhodey tonight,” Tony said. He glanced at the clock. “If he ever decides to show up, that is.” He reached for the bottle of cleaner and found Pepper staring at him, her coffee cup hanging in mid-air as if she’d forgotten it. Tony arched an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“Who’s going with you?” Pepper asked.

“What?” Tony shrugged. “No one. What do you mean, who’s going with us? I’m sure he’ll drag my exhausted ass down to Mjolnir to start, but-”

“No,” Pepper said, her voice blunt.

Tony waited. There was nothing else forthcoming. “No?” he repeated, his lips twitching.

“No,” Pepper said again, her voice dire. “No. The two of you are not allowed to go out alone. With Steve? Sure. With Bruce? Absolutely. With Thor or Nat or Clint-” She stopped. “Actually no. Not with Clint.”

“I can go out with Clint if I want,” Tony said, because he was a contrarian bastard.

“Remember what happened the last time you went out with Clint?” Pepper asked, her voice sweet.

Tony thought about that, his brow furrowing. “No,” he said at last.

“Right,” Pepper said. “You’re not allowed to go out with Clint.” She drained the rest of her coffee. “Or alone with Rhodey.”

“What? Why?” Tony tossed the cleaning cloth back into the bleach water. “Rhodey’s the good one, Pep. Rhodey’s the-”

“Rhodey is as big of a human disaster area as you are!” Pepper said, nicking a slice of pickled carrot from his plate. “He just does a better job of covering it up. Until he’s in your vicinity. Then that carefully maintained facade collapses like an undercooked souffle.”

Tony took the coffee cup out of her hand, hoping she had a sip left. No such luck. “Is this your way of saying that you want to come out with us tonight?” he asked. “Because you’re always welcome, Pepper.”

“I’d like to live through the weekend, so no,” Pepper said. She stole another of Tony’s quick pickles, her eyes narrowed as her teeth sank into the crisp chunk of cauliflower. “Maybe Sam will-”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Tony said, “and if I did, I’m pretty sure that I’d be insulted that you think that you can convince Sam to do it.”

“He’d do it just for the blackmail pictures, and you know it,” Pepper said. 

“I’ll stop by Sam’s truck on our way across the road and see if he’s up for a drink, but I don’t need you setting up playdates, thank you,” Tony said. “Besides, any benefit that we might get from Sam’s presence will be immediately negated if Bucky’s hanging around looking for leftovers.” He braced a hand on the counter. “Add Bucky to the mix and we might as well hire a PR firm right now.”

Pepper rubbed a hand over her face. “Why are all of your friends so…” She stopped, and sighed. “So much like you?”

“Because I attract free thinking, hard drinking, culinary rebels who are ready to throwdown at any time,” Tony said. “With a wide variety of knives used for a wide variety of purposes.”

“You attract people who need bail money,” Pepper said. “Maybe Bruce-”

“No,” Bruce yelled back from the other side of the kitchen. He ducked down, just far enough to meet their eyes under the rows of gleaming copper pans. “Whatever you’re doing over there, taking my name in vain, the answer, uh, is no.”

“Come out drinking with us!” Tony called back. “C’mon, old man, you can-”

“No,” Bruce said, and then, a moment later, “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and Rhodey.”

“No,” Bruce said. “Absolutely no.”

Pepper made no effort to hide her smirk. Tony pointed a finger in her direction. “Not a word,” he said. “Fine. You’re all allergic to fun. That’s your problem, not mine.”

“Yes, but you are my problem,” Pepper said. Her foot tapped against the tile. “Fine. Last resort.”

“We end up booked there an awful lot,” Tony said.

“More than I like, honestly,” Pepper said. “Peter!”

“No,” Tony said.

“It won’t work,” Bruce said, shaking his head. 

“Of course it won’t fucking work, it’s PARKER,” Tony said.

“What’s Parker?” Peter asked from the kitchen door. “Why, what’s happening?”

“You’re going to go drinking with Tony,” Pepper told him.

“He’s not twenty-one,” Bruce said.

“I’m not twenty-one,” Peter parroted.

“Fine,” Pepper said, her eyes rolling. “You’re going to go out with Tony while he’s drinking.”

“You think that PARKER can keep me in line?” Tony asked, incredulous. “PARKER?”

“He’ll slow you down, and that’s all I care about,” Pepper said.

“He’s not a speed limit, Pep, he barely qualifies as a speedbump,” Tony said, his eyes narrowing at Peter.   
Peter, for his part, took a nervous step back. “It’s not going to work.”

“I’m not really comfortable with this-” Peter started.

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars,” Pepper said, and Peter stopped dead.

“Is… Is this on the clock?” he asked at last.

“It absolutely is not,” Tony said.

“Consider it a side hustle,” Pepper said. “Fifty dollars cash now, fifty more if you get him back to his apartment tonight without he or Rhodey causing any major disasters.”

Peter gave Tony a sideways glance. “What… What are we defining as a ‘major disaster’?” he asked at last.

“If I have to deal with it, it’s major,” Pepper said, her voice dire. “Keep it out of the papers, and them out of handcuffs and I’ll consider it good.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Peter took it. Bruce shook his head. “You’re going to regret this,” he said.

“I’m going to regret this,” Peter agreed. “But I’ll regret it with fifty dollars, and most of the time, let’s be honest, I’m regretting it with zero dollars.”

“Right. I’m getting my purse,” Pepper said, heading for the staff room.

Tony grinned at Peter. “You know I’m going to make you work for that fifty bucks, don’t you, kid?” he asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes, chef,” Peter said. He blinked at Tony. “So. Where are we going?”

“Denny’s,” Tony said with a straight face. “Just in time for a Moon Over My Hammy.”

“I’m trying to imagine you in a Denny’s and, uh, I’m failing,” Bruce said.

“I’m succeeding and it’s terrifying,” Peter told him. “Maybe this isn’t a good-”

“Knock, knock!” Rhodey’s voice echoed from the back door. “Anyone home?” 

“We’re closed!” Tony called back. “Make a reservation!”

Rhodey poked his head into the kitchen, grinning like the fiend that he was. “I tried, but your front of house keeps hanging up on me,” he said. Pepper, coming up behind him, swatted at him with her purse. Laughing, Rhodey fended her off. “Hey, Potts, didn’t see you there.”

“You’re a liar and no gentleman, Rhodes,” she said, going up on her toes to brush a kiss against his cheek. “How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain,” Rhodey said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his khakis.

“”You could, but no one will listen,” Tony said. He unbuttoned his chef’s jacket, shrugging out of it. “You’re late.”

“I had to change out of uniform, and besides, if I’d shown up any earlier, you’d’ve had me scrubbing a station,” Rhodey pointed out. He reached across the station to Bruce. “It’s been a long time, Bruce. You coming out with us tonight?”

“It has.” Bruce shook his hand with a smile. “And absolutely not.”

Rhodey laughed, a bright, boisterous bust of sound that never failed to make Tony smile. “I think I’m hurt, Banner.”

“Look, you’re, you’ve a very nice man,” Bruce said.

“No, he’s not,” Pepper said. Rhodey gave her a mock hurt look, and she just shook her head. “Good try, but not a chance.”

“But I learned my lesson the last time,” Bruce finished. “I, uh, I still have no idea what happened to my shoes or either of my melon ballers.”

“Right,” Pepper said. She reached into her bag, pulled out a bill and slapped it into Peter’s hand. “Half now. Half on delivery of a disaster free night, Peter.”

Peter stared down at the fifty. “This was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

Tony wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “It absolutely was,” he said. “Rhodes. Lead on.” He felt a laugh bubbling up in his chest. “The night’s short and-” He plucked the fifty out of Peter’s hand. “Parker’s buying.“

*

Everything was pain.

Tony’s head was throbbing, the sound of his own pulse a physical force that he couldn’t get away from. He rolled onto his side, trying to go fetal, and immediately regretted it when his stomach decided to keep right on going. He gritted his teeth against the rising tide of nausea and regretted that, too, when pain shot through his jaw, and straight into his skull.

If he was being honest with himself, which never ended well, he regretted a whole hell of a lot more than that.

He took a slow, shallow breath through his nose. If he was lucky, he was at home, in his own bed, and Rhodey was somewhere nearby, also nursing a bitch of a hangover. Tony took a moment to savor that thought, that Rhodey was probably in as much pain, if not more than he was. It was a pleasant thought, mostly because he couldn’t remember much, but he was pretty sure that what he did remember was all Rhodey’s fault.

Tony opened one eye, blinking hard to get his vision to focus. Yes. His bedroom, in the penthouse. The clothes strewn across the floor looked like his and just his. Nothing was on fire, and- He leaned over, just far enough to check the trash can left convienently next to the bed. It was empty.

Tony slumped back onto the bed. Right. Good. Any night that didn’t end with him throwing up in a trash can was a good night. Because he had very low standards and his best friend was absolutely the worst.

On the nightstand, his phone started to vibrate, the sound painfully loud in the silence of the room. Tony fumbled out with one hand, slapping at it with numb fingers, desperate to make the sound stop. Mercifully, it did, and he rolled back onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.

“Hello?”

Tony flinched. 

“Hello?”

He raised his head, just far enough to aim a glare in the phone’s direction. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

“Tony?”

Apparently not. Tony fumbled out, dragging the phone over onto the pillow. “No,” he said, and man, his voice sounded bad, even to him.

There was a beat of silence. “Hi, Tony! It’s Alison!”

Tony thought about that. “Right. That’s… Right.”

Another beat. “You don’t have any idea who I am, do you?”

“I absolutely do,” Tony said, because if he was going to go down, he was going to go down swinging. 

“Alison Blaire,” she said, and she sounded amused, which was probably a good sign. “Of NYC Nightline?”

“Right,” Tony said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Underground DJ, blogger, vidcaster?” she asked. “Woman about town? Professional gossip?”

“These are all words,” Tony said. “How did you get this number?”

“You gave it to me,” Alison said.

“Right, I do that, I probably shouldn’t, but I’m sure I didn’t mean for you to use it.” Tony wondered if he’d survive a trip to the kitchen. Coffee might be worth dying for.

“You specifically said, ‘give me a call,’” Alison said.

“Was I drunk?”

“Possibly.” She waited for a moment. “Are you drunk now?”

“I suspect I’m exceptionally hung over now,” Tony said. “Exceptionally. Painfully. Horrifically.”

“I thought maybe that might be the case.” She was trying not to laugh. He appreciated that about her. “Look, I’ll leave you to your misery.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I’m just looking for a quick comment about the YouTube video you uploaded last night.”

Tony stopped. His eyes squeezed shut. “Please tell me I was wearing pants.”

A second of silence, then, “Is… Is that your comment?”

“It’s a question, please try to keep up, I’m running on three viciously angry brain cells, the only ones I have that survived the alcohol apocolypse last night, you can help me out here, Alison. Was I wearing pants?”

“In the video?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“You were sitting down,” she said. “You were wearing a shirt, though. So. I have no reason to think that you WEREN’T wearing pants.”

“Oh, thank God,” Tony said. “Fine. Great. Then I don’t care.”

“Is THAT your-”

“I have no memory of making a video, let alone uploading one, I assume it all happened after the drinking happened-”

“You did seem really, really drunk,” Alison said.

“Yeah, judging by my headache right now, yes, I was probably really, really, REALLY drunk,” Tony said, “And when I’m really, really, REALLY drunk I usually say things that I mean but that I really, really, REALLY shouldn’t say.”

He could hear a rhythmic tapping, what he suspected was a pen against the top of a desk or maybe a fingernail against a coffee cup. “So…”

“Yeah, I said it, no, I don’t remember saying it,” Tony said, “I probably meant it and I definitely shouldn’t have said it.” He pushed himself upright, biting back a groan as every inch of his body protested. He hunched forward, sucking in breath between his teeth. “Talk to Pepper. She’ll… She usually has a better statement.”

“Ms. Potts said, and I quote-” He heard fingers tapping on a keyboard. “‘I paid someone a hundred dollars specifically so I did not have to comment on anything that happened this weekend.’” A pause. “‘And thank you for calling. Lovely to talk to you.’ Then she hung up.”

“I really don’t pay her enough,” Tony mused.

“I don’t know what you pay her, but I’m absolutely confident that’s true. So. On the record. What’s your comment?”

“On the record,” Tony said, “I don’t give a damn.”

“Gotcha.” Another rattle of keys. “Off the record, though? I agree with you.”

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” Tony said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find out if I have any coffee in this apartment.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“There will likely be weeping. Loud. Embarrassing. You’re better off not knowing any more of the details,” Tony said. “You’d lose all respect.”

“I’d hate for that to happen,” Alison said. 

“You and me both,” Tony said. “I’m… I’m going to hang up on you now.”

“Thanks for the heads up, but most people just say ‘good-bye’ and that means the same thing, you know that, right?”

“Good talk,” Tony agreed, and hung up the call. Then he tossed his phone in the general direction of the trash can, which he could do, because he hadn’t thrown up in that trash can, and good for him.

He had, apparently, uploaded something to YouTube, so… Less good for him. He flopped back against the pillows piled on his headboard and nearly screamed as a sharp spike of pain shot through his right shoulder and down the full length of his spine. Rocking forward, he groped at his shoulder, trying to figure out the sourse of the pain.

There was a rather large gauze pad taped firmly into place on the back of his shoulder. He twisted his head to the side, squinting at the edges. “Right,” he said, because the pain had quickly faded to just one more throbbing ache. “Right. I can’t…” He scraped a hand over his face. “Coffee.”

It took a painfully long time to pry himself loose from the covers of his bed and struggle to his feet. Then, swaying on legs that did not want to hold his weight, he stumbled into the bathroom. After a quick attempt to restore his basic humanity, he headed out of the bedroom. He spared a moment’s consideration to finding a shirt or a pair of sweatpants or something, but it just honestly seemed like too much work. He was wearing a decent enough pair of boxers, and Rhodey’d seen him in worse.

And if Parker was still here, he deserved whatever he got.

Some idiot had pulled back the shades in the living room, bathing the penthouse in cheerful, golden morning light. Tony considered hissing at the world in general, but contented himself with trying to figure out where the kitchen was.

“It’s… It’s off to the left.”

Tony paused, peeking over the back of the couch. Rhodey was lying face down on the cushions, buried under half a dozen blankets and clutching a throw pillow to his face. “What?” Tony asked, bracing a hand on the back of the couch.

Rhodey raised his head. Tony noted, with a certain vicious satisfaction, that he looked slightly grey, his eyes bloodshot and his cheek bruised. “Your kitchen.” Rhodey sounded like he was having trouble forming words. “It’s to the left. Where it always is.”

Tony frowned at the hall to the left. “Are… You sure?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Rhodey said, his voice wry. "I mean. I don't own the place. But I've been here a few times."

The kitchen seemed like it was a long way away. “Why are you on my couch?” Tony asked Rhodey, because bothering Rhodey was less effort and more fun that trying to make his knees work.

“Because the floor was taken?” Rhodey said.

Tony leaned over, peering past the couch. Peter was curled into a ball under a too-small throw blanket, half under the coffee table. Tony braced both hands on the back of the couch, leaning his weight into them. “What… What is he doing? I have… I have other furniture, Parker. I have other BEDROOMS, why are you-” His head fell forward, and he took a deep breath. “Rhodes. Why is the child on the floor?”

“I think it’s a bizarre form of penance,” Rhodey said. He struggled into a sitting position. “Or maybe-”

Tony snatched his pillow and threw it in Peter’s direction. It landed on his head. “What are you doing, Parker?”

Peter didn’t move. “Suffering,” he mumbled from under the pillow.

Tony straightened up. “Did we-” His head snapped around towards Rhodey, who was cradling his head in his hands. “Tell me we didn’t give him alcohol.”

“We didn’t give him alcohol,” Rhodey said into his fingers.

“Then what’s his problem?” Tony asked. He looked at Peter, still immobile on his floor. “What is your problem, Parker?”

“I got a milkshake at every place we stopped.” Peter sounded miserable. “Every single place.”

Tony paused. “That’s a lot of dairy, Parker.”

Peter let out a long, sustained groan, curling up in a ball. Tony nodded. “Right. Coffee. Everyone gets coffee. And anyone who can tell me what the hell happened between me drinking my weight in booze and Parker reliving the nifty fifties trips to the soda fountain gets breakfast, too.”

“I never want to see food again,” Rhodey said. “I don’t know what hurts more, my neck or my stomach.”

“Yeah, well, why are you on my couch, I have a guest bedroom, I’m, like, 90% sure I have a guest bedroom here,” Tony said. “Got a bed and everything.”

“It was occupied,” Rhodey said.

“Occupied? Who the hell-” Tony started, just as the bedroom door opened.

Carol looked just as rough as Rhodey did, her face pale and her hair sticking up in off-balance clumps. She was wearing what looked like one of Tony’s button down oxford shirts and nothing else that he could see. She leaned a shoulder on the door frame, her arms crossed over her chest.“Anyone have any hints for getting Clint out of the bathtub?”

Tony’s eyes closed. “Why is Clint in my bathtub?” he asked. “And why are you here?”

She gave him a look that could’ve flash frozen fire. “Fuck you.”

Tony considered that. “Which… Question is that answering?” he asked at last. She flipped him off. “Both of them, then?”

“Barton is not my problem, and I’m here because you called Jess in the middle of the night and convinced her to come and meet you at a random ramen shop you’d found,” Carol said. “I wanted to sleep. We’d just finished two seperate jobs, both of which were horrible and involved beet puree-”

“Oh, god, why,” Tony said.

“Because our clients are idiots, and I wanted to sleep, not get pulled into your stupid,” Carol said.

“You always want to sleep,” Tony pointed out.

“Because I’m normal,” Carol said.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Tony told her as Jess peeked around her shoulder. “Morning, Drew.”

“Nice boxers,” she said, and Tony considered shame but it seemed far too late for that. Jess was wearing two t-shirts layered on top of each other, and Tony was pretty sure one was hers and the other was Carol’s, over a pair of oversized red silk pajama pants.

“Are you wearing my pants?” he asked.

“Probably. I found them,” Jess said, blinking at him from behind a curtain of dark hair. “Seriously, though, how do you wake up Clint, because he’s snoring like a congested heifer and I really need a shower.”

“Yeah, if he’s turned off his hearing aids, then you’re better off turning the shower on,” Tony said. “It’s all that’s likely to work.”

“Wait, his what?” Rhodey sat up. His Air Force Academy t-shirt was definitely worse for wear. “His hearing aids?”

“He’s hard of hearing,” Peter mumbled into the carpet.

Rhodey looked from Peter to Tony and back. “Doesn’t…. Isn’t SHIELD a completely dark experience?”

“Yeah,” Tony said.

“Including the kitchens?” Rhodey asked, his voice pitching upwards.

“Yes,” Tony said. Rhodey stared at him, and Tony shrugged. “And?”

“He’s hard of hearing and he works in a completely dark kitchen?” Rhodey asked.

“No one ever said he makes good choices,” Tony said. “Speaking of making incredibly poor choices, anyone know anything about the YouTube video I apparently made yesterday?”

Jess and Carol looked at each other. As one, they looked at Rhodey. Rhodey looked at Peter. Peter groaned. Tony held up a hand. “Right. Right. Can we start at the beginning?” he said.

“We went to Mjolnir,” Rhodey said, rubbing his temples. “That’s where we met Clint and Natahsa. Fury and Phil were there, too, and, uh, Maria?”

“We missed Maria?” Carol asked. 

“So you weren’t there, hush, we’ll get to you later,” Tony said. “So. Had a drink. Talked to Thor.”

“Yeah, there was… There was this guy there, someone who Thor knew, some big name from Europe,” Rhodey said. 

“He was an aaaaaaaaaaaass,” Peter said.

“Yeah, he was, and-” Rhodey frowned. “He started a bar brawl.”

“Well, he threw the first bar stool, but Tony started it,” Peter said, and Tony gave up.

“Right,” he said, wobbling his way over to an armchair. “What, exactly, did I do?” Peter sat up. He blinked owlishly at Tony. Tony tried for a reassuring smile. Peter smiled back. Tony waited. “Parker.”

Peter nodded. “Chef?”

“What the fuck happened, Parker?”

Peter paused. “You… Really don’t remember?” he asked.

“If I did, would I be asking you?”

Peter considered that. “That seems like a trap,” he admitted, and Tony nearly lost it.

He took a slow, deep breath. “Parker, I will have you thrown into the Hudson, just tell me what the fuck happened.”

Peter took a deep breath of his own. “There was this, this guy, and he was drinking a lot and getting on Thor’s nerves, and getting on everyone’s nerves, but everyone was being super polite, and then he started ranting about food trucks and how they were a plague on the culinary scene, and it was like a Reddit post happening in real life, I was like-”

“Parker,” Tony said, and Peter pulled himself up short.

“Anyway, he was like, ‘I’d never be caught dead in one of those roach coaches,’ and you said, ‘yeah, don’t think they make one big enough to carry your ego,’ and then things got very, very quiet.”

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that… Sounds like me,” he admitted. “So then-”

“And then you said, ‘but don’t worry, I’ve got one that’s just the right size for your dick,’ and you pulled a Hot Wheels car out of your pocket, like, just-” Peter spread his hands. “You had a HOT WHEELS and you just pulled that out, and he got really red and really quiet, and you said, ‘beep beep’ in your most condescending voice and then dropped it into his beer.

There was a long moment of silence. “Wow,” Carol said at last.

“And that’s when he hit you with his chair,” Peter said.

“WOW,” Carol repeated, as Jess started slow clapping.

“Sounds like me,” Tony admitted, ignoring the way that Rhodey was laughing, trying to muffle it behind his hand. Tony slumped back into his chair, wincing as his shoulder objected. He rubbed at it. “That explains the bandage.”

“Well, no,” Peter said. 

“No?” Tony repeated.

“No, as it turns out, you seemed to expect him to throw something at you, because you dodged like a pro,” Peter said. “But anyway, that set off a whole thing, and everyone was yelling and throwing things and as it turns out, everyone from SHIELD is absolutely terrifying-”

“Especially Fury,” Rhodey said. “I… I remember that.”

“I can’t believe that Thor didn’t stop it,” Tony said. “He can usually handle a drunk-”

“Yeah, he’s the one who escalated it,” Peter said. “He’s been talking about wanting to remodel. Now… Now he has to.”

“I can’t believe we missed the brawl,” Carol said. “The brawl.”

“It wasn’t much of a brawl,” Peter said.

“I know you’re lying,” Tony said.

“I was under the bar for most of it,” Peter admitted.

“Right,” Tony said. “That’s.. Probably for the best. And that was the way the night started.” He took a deep breath. “Is… Is that the YouTube video?”

“Oh. Peter grimaced. “No. That’s....” He pasted a smile on his face. “I’m going to make coffee.”

Tony held up a hand. “I need an overview,” he said. 

“I don’t think that’s a very good-”

“Parker,” Tony said.

“We went to Mjolnir, you started a bar brawl, Thor finished the bar brawl, then he and his people and the SHIELD staff all went back to SHIELD and then we drank a lot of things in the dark and you tried to get Fury to admit that the wiring had failed completely and he challenged you to cook something without using the words ‘foam, smoke, dessicated or infused,’ and so then we went back to TOBRU and ate chicken and waffles and then there was another bar and a secret underground place where everyone was terrifying and then you called Jess-”

“You did, you called Jess,” Jess said.

“And then we went for ramen and the chef knew you and kept giving you sake and I got an egg in my ramen, like, a special egg,” Peter said, sounding proud of that, “and Clint did the ramen challenge and that was horrible and-”

“I wasn’t allowed to do the ramen challenge,” Carol said. “Which, fuck that, I could’ve done it.”

“Which is why it was not allowed,” Jess said, sitting cross legged on the couch. “Once you get onto a competitive eating spree, it is impossible to stop you.”

“Anyway, some other stuff happened and now I’m going to make some coffee,” Peter said.

Tony took a deep breath. “Why do I have a bandage on my shoulder?”

“Because it was a rough night, and-” Peter started, and Jess cut him off.

“You got a tattoo,” she said.

Tony gritted out a curse. “Who the hell tattooed me when I was that drunk?”

“The same person who did your last three tattoos,” Rhodey said. 

Tony’s eyes closed. “Aw, fuck. Nebula, I’m going to kill you.”

“Your tattoo parlor is amazing,” Jess said. “Amazing. I mean. I asked her how she ended up at the shop and she said she only had two interests, art and stabbing men who annoy her and that tattooing is the only career path that combines the two.”

“And she wasn’t even our favorite,” Carol said.

“Yeah, she’s a peach, and what the fuck did she put on me?” Tony asked, already knowing and dreading the answer.

“It’s really tasteful,” Peter said.

“Really. It’s, it’s nice,” Rhodey said. “Clean lines, good color-”

Tony looked at Carol. “It’s Steve’s logo,” she said, her voice flat. “You got his truck logo on your shoulder.”

Tony took a deep breath. And another. “Right,” he said at last. “And the YouTube video?”

Rhodey stood up. “I’m not discussing that until after we’ve had food.”

There was a loud crash from the general direction of the bathroom. There was a long pause. “Where the fuck am I?” Clint yelled.

“Right,” Tony said. “Who wants to deal with that, and who wants to make breakfast?”

"Breakfast," everyone chorused as one, and Tony nodded.

"Right."


	2. Chapter 2

“So guess what Tony did.”

Steve took a cautious sip of his coffee, savoring the burn for a long, easy moment, before he bothered to reply. “Why do so many of our conversations start like this now, Bucky?”

“Because Stark is an idiot, and he’s publicly an idiot, and I have a Google alert set up so I know about it before you,” Bucky said. He sounded gleeful. “Purely so I can start conversations like this.”

Steve paused, his coffee cup hanging motionless in the air. “Why?” he asked at last.

“‘Cause I’m bored a lot,” Bucky admitted. Something was rattling in the background of the call, and Steve had a sneaking suspicion it was the door to his fridge. “And fighting with idiots on the internet is a cheap and unlimited source of amusement.”

Steve pressed a hand to his face. “Buck…”

“Look, it’s for your benefit,” Bucky said.

“Oh, this is gonna be rich,” Steve said, turning his attention back to his coffee now that they were on familiar ground. It wasn’t good coffee. But he’d spent a couple of sleepless hours tossing and turning in the too large, too empty hotel bed, leaving him frustrated and exhausted enough to risk the Keurig coffee maker on the desk. 

It hadn’t paid off. He had low standards and yet, the content of the cup still didn’t manage to satisfy them. But it was available, and it was hot and he was desperate. 

“Look, he uploaded a video to YouTube at like, four am, and that’s a time when people make bad choices, and you’re out of town, so I just wanted to make sure that he’s not cheating on you,” Bucky said.

Steve’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “He’s not cheating on me, Bucky.”

“Turns out, no, he’s not.” There was a long pause. Then, threateningly, “This time.”

“The closest Tony’s going to get to cheating on me was that time I got concerned about his cholesterol levels and made him an organic quinoa and chickpea kale salad for dinner,” Steve said. “And he snuck past me to go eat nachos while hiding in Sam’s truck.”

“Wait, are we talking about Sam’s potato nachos? The spicy waffle fries, topped with cheese, sour cream, salsa, jalapenos, barbacoa pulled pork and refried beans?” Bucky asked.

“And crushed pork rinds sprinkled over the top,” Steve said. “It’s… It’s a sight, let me tell you.”

“I’ve seen it, I’ve eaten it, and I would’ve cheated on you, too,” Bucky said. “I mean. C’mon, Steve. Quinoa?”

“His heart is going to explode and I’d like to stave that off for a few years,” Steve pointed out. “And he was huddled behind Sam’s counter, his feet braced against the far cabinets. Eating cheese fries with his bare hands.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there,” Bucky said. “Literally. I’ve been on that exact square foot of floor.” 

“You’re both lucky Sam keeps a clean truck,” Steve said. 

“I’m lucky for a lot of things,” Bucky said. “And you’re lucky I’m willing to wake up in the middle of the night to watch the videos that Tony chooses to upload when you’re out of town for more than twenty-four hours.”

“You were still awake, weren’t you?” Steve asked, already knowing the answer. He drained the rest of his coffee, more out of a sense of obligation than for any real desire to drink it. He stood up, heading to the bathroom to toss it it the trash can. 

“The point is, I was there to handle that for you,” Bucky said. “Because if he had been cheating on you, I would’ve had plenty of time to hunt him down, break both his legs, and make sure he took it back down before posting a really scathing Gulp! Review on him.”

“Because breaking his legs wouldn’t be enough,” Steve said.

“I hit ‘em where it hurts,” Bucky said.

“Noble of you.” Steve gave himself a critical look in the hotel mirror. He looked like death warmed over, dark circles under his eyes, the line of his jaw sharp and tense. He made a face at his reflection, and turned on the sink. “Thanks for the wakeup call, Buck, but I’ve got a meeting to get ready for.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what the video is?” Bucky asked.

Giving up, Steve put his phone on speaker and reached for a washcloth. “Nope.”

“Are you going to watch it?”

Steve shoved his hands into the flowing water, splashing his face. “Nope,” he repeated. Bucky made a disbelieving sound, and Steve caught himself grinning. “Not right now.”

“How are you like this?” Bucky said. “I’ve known you my entire life, but I gotta ask, how are you like this?”

“There’s a real argument in psychological circles about nature vs. nurture, so-” Grinning, Steve grabbed a towel. “It’s anyone’s guess.”

“I grew up in literally the same building as you, and your Ma was as normal a lady as I ever met, so I’m guessing you’re just naturally a little punk. You might finally be bigger than me, but you’re still a little punk, Rogers.”

“And you’re spying on my boyfriend, so…”

“That’s a community service,” Bucky said. “It’s a service. I provide our community. Out of the goodness of my heart. And also because it’s funny.”

“Right,” Steve said. “Right. I think-” He stopped, a pounding at the hotel room door interrupting him mid-sentence. “And that’s either the most enthusiastic hotel cleaning staff ever, or Isaiah is here to yell at me to get my ass in gear.”

“My money’s on the old coot,” Bucky said.

“Right, and I’m going to do my community service and not tell him you called him that, because he will stick his cane into your wheel the next time he sees you.”

“I mean, he can try, but I’m wily and fast.”

“Sure you are.” Another very loud knock, and Steve tossed the towel aside. “Good-bye, Buck.”

“Are you going to watch the damn video, Steve?”

“Thanks for calling, have a good day, talk to you again soon,” Steve said, and stabbed the disconnect button over Bucky’s nearly coherent swearing. Chuckling, Steve headed for the door. Before he managed to make it there, it started vibrating under a fresh assault. “Hey! Stop trying to break down my door!”

“Get a move on, boy!” Isaiah’s voice echoed through the closed door. “You planning on sleeping all damn day?”

Steve opened the door. “It’s eight am,” he pointed out, trying his best not to smile. He braced a hand on the doorframe. “It’s…” He shook his head. “Isaiah. It’s eight am.”

“I know, I got a watch.” Without waiting for an invitation, Isaiah shouldered his way past Steve, waving a brown bakery bag in his general direction. “Wasn’t sure you did.”

Steve gave up and shut the door. “Still have the one that Erskine gave me, actually.” He considered the bakery bag. “That for me?”

“Mmm.” Isaiah tossed it to him. “Found a little Mexican bakery, couple of blocks away. Nice lady. Knew her way around a pastry.” He paused it next to the desk, leaning over to tap the head of his cane against the coffee maker. He gave Steve a glare. “Tell me you didn’t use this.”

“I was desperate,” Steve said. The bag was warm in his hand, and he gave a hopeful sniff. “Apple fritter?”

“Empanadas.” Isaiah straightened up. “Expected you to be dressed and ready to go.”

“Working on it,” Steve said, reluctantly putting the bag aside. His suit was hanging in the closet and he grabbed it. “Bucky decided I needed a wakeup call.” A suspicious sound from Isaiah brought him up short. He stopped, the suit falling to his side. “You know, until I met you, I thought the word ‘chortle’ was made up.”

“It was. By Lewis Carroll.” Isaiah shoved the coffee machine into the trash can.

“I don’t want to be charged for that, and I meant, I didn’t think it was a real thing. That people did. Then I met you,” Steve pointed out. “And your disconcerting laughter.”

Isaiah stomped across the room, his cane thumping against the floor with every step. “I subscribe to Stark’s YouTube channel.” He snatched the hanger out of Steve’s hand and shoved it against his chest. “Rang the little bell for notifications and everything.” 

He headed for the door. “Eat your empanadas and try not to get anything on your tie. We got thirty minutes before we’re gotta be getting in a cab.” He waved a hand in the air. “I’m getting a coffee, and I expect you’ll have figured out how to put on your pants by the time I get back.”

“You going to get me one?” Steve asked, amused.

“Depends on the pants situation,” Isaiah said. “Get to work, Rogers.”

*

“You tattooed me.”

Nebula didn’t look up from her design work. “Yeah,” she said, her voice emotionless. “That’s what we do here. We’re a tattoo shop. That’s what it says on the sign.”

“It doesn’t say anything on the sign,” Peter said, because he was Peter, and he hadn’t learned yet. Nebula’s pen stilled on the page. Peter blinked at her. “There… There is no sign.”

In the silence that followed, Peter just kept going. “There’s just a door. There’s a door. With what I think is a constellation of stars carved in it, but it’s hard to say because it’s less ‘carving’ and more that jit looks like someone just stabbed the door a lot.” He looked over his shoulder, back down the hallway towards the front door. “Stabbed the door with stars, and I think that’s bad for the knife and the door and I think a sign would be a better idea, instead of some stabby, stabby stars that-”

Nebula’s hand flashed out, the movement so fast that Tony couldn’t even track it, and stabbed the tip of a hunting knife through the page she was drawing on, pinning it firmly to the wood of her desk. Her head still down, she said, “Knife embedded hilt deep in the wood’s a hell of a lot cheaper, though, itsy-bitsy.” 

“Right, sit down, junior, until you’re old enough for us to go to work on you.” Moondragon put a firm hand on Peter’s head and pushed him into one of the lobby seats. His knees buckled, and he landed with an audible thump. Moondragon leaned over his shoulder, a frightening smile on her face. “Comfortable?”

Peter swallowed. “Not at all,” he said.

She straightened up. “Good.”

“Parker, eat your breakfast burrito,” Tony said, not even looking in that direction. “And stop doing things that draw attention to yourself.”

“I, uh- I-” Tony turned and looked at him. Peter pointed at Jessica. “She ate it,” Peter said, and Tony looked at Jessica. She met his eyes over the top of Peter’s massive burrito, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster’s. 

Tony spread his hands. “Really, Drew?”

She shrugged and shoved about another half pound of eggs, potatoes and salsa into her mouth. “Marhash sheashe,” she managed.

“I bought you your own, you mooch,” Tony said.

“She ate that one first,” Carol said, an amused smile on her face. She ripped her pastry in half and tossed part of it to Peter. “Eat that, and keep your head down, kid.” Looking grateful, Peter huddled down into himself, clutching the danish in both hands like a lifeline.

“Nice,” Moondragon said, and Carol held up the grease stained bag of pastry, one eyebrow arched in a question. Moondragon held out a hand. “I can’t say no to a beautiful woman,” she said with a winning smile. “Especially not when chocolate croissants are involved.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you knew what was in here,” Carol said, handing the bag over. “Because I’m pretty sure I want to know the answer.”

“Trust me,” Nebula said, scowling at her work. “You don’t.”

“I do,” Jessica said.

“You really don’t. Can we focus here?” Tony asked the room at large.

“I think it’s been proven that we can’t,” Carol said. 

“You’re enjoying this,” Tony accused her.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Carol said with a shit eating grin. She leaned back in her chair, her legs thrown out in front of her. “I’m in a room full of attractive women, and all of them are giving you hell. This is pretty much my definition of paradise.”

“And I’m in hell,” Tony said.

“Poetic, isn’t it?” Moondragon mused. She peeled a bit of the croissant away, savoring the single bite with a smile.

“Look, I’m busy here,” Nebula said. “And while I appreciate the rather obscene tip you gave me last night, Tony, I’m not doing any more work on you until that heals up, so you can call us in a week or so and make another appointment if you-”

“You TATTOOED ME,” Tony said, and Nebula looked up, her dark eyes glacial beneath the hard line of her brows. Tony glared at her. “While I was blackout drunk, Neb. What the hell?”

“Yeah,” she said. She straightened up, and braced her hands on the table between them. Her fingers, stained blue from the ink of her pen, stood out in stark contrast to the white paper. “I did. You know why?”

Her shoulders flexed as she leaned forward, the muscles bunching under the thin straps of her tank top. “Because you’ve sent me the same design nine. Damn. Times.” She bit off each word with a particular sort of violence, her teeth cutting into the syllables. “Nine times. In two months. Every time you get frustrated, or drunk, or depressed, ping!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “I get an email with the same design.”

Tony’s mouth opened. Closed. “It was six. Max,” he said at last.

“Tony, you might’ve deleted the emails, but I didn’t.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It was nine. You’d made up your mind. You just didn’t want to admit it. Which, whatever. None of my business. Until. You know.” Her head tipped to the side. “It impacts my business.”

Her eyes were slits now, sharp and hard. “So you want to do a chargeback? You go right ahead. I won’t even contest it. You want to sue me? Fine. Pretty sure Bernie already hates you on general principles, so she’s probably got a filing ready to go. But I don’t think you will, because if you do, you’ll have to find yourself a new artist, and Tony?” She smiled. “You’re lazy.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, Jess said “Ouch” in a very small voice, and Tony had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.

Instead, he scraped a hand over his face. “Tell me you did a good job at least.”

“Fuck you, I did an amazing job,” Nebula said, throwing herself back into her desk chair. It took the impact like a champ, the wood creaking like a ship caught in a storm. “And even more important, I refused to put it where you wanted me to put it last night.”

Tony thought about that. “Ass?” he asked.

“Ass,” Nebula agreed. “Also, you walked in chanting ‘tramp stamp tramp stamp tramp stamp,’ which, honestly, both rude and a bad idea.”

“Well, I’ve been known to tramp it up,” Tony said, risking life and limb to take half a croissant off of Moondragon. 

“What is this conversation?” Tony turned around just in time to see Okoye poke her head into the waiting room. She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Oh. It’s you. That explains…” Her mouth pursed. “So many things, actually.”

“What are you doing here?” Tony asked.

Okoye paused, one hand braced on her hip, the other cradling the strap of her handbag. “What?” she asked, one eyebrow arched. “At a tattoo shop, in a bad part of the city, before noon, on a weekday?”

Tony waited. She just started a him, her gaze level. “Yes?” he said at last.

“Book club,” Okoye said. 

Tony stared at her. “Book club.”

She paused in the act of removing her wrap. “Yes,” she said, her voice very patient. “Book club. Where we gather, and have a discussion about the text of a book, which we have all read.”

“I never read it,” Nebula said, tossing paperclips at the hilt of the knife, still jammed into the wood of her desk.

“Which most of us have read,” Okoye amended. “And which others are willing to judge, based in its cover.”

“This one sucked,” Nebula said.

“You’re lucky you’re amusing,” Moondragon said, idly flipping through a magazine, her booted feet propped on her desk. “Caiera’s got a client, so as soon as she’s done, we can start.”

“Book club?” Tony asked Okoye.

She stopped, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes?”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Tony asked. “What are the chances you’d be here, after we saw you last night, and now you’re here, and I don’t think this is a coincidence.”

Okoye’s lips twitched. “It’s not.”

“Ha!” Tony stabbed a finger in her direction. And he had no idea where to go from there. “I-” His eyes darted towards Nebula, who was just sitting at her desk, her head cradled in her hands. “Ha?”

“Last night, she told us that she had book club today.” Peter’s voice was almost startlingly loud in the sudden silence. “And then, Jess asked about the book club. And then she told us that she’d introduced you to them when you first came to New York and now you get your tattoos done here, and while you were explaining this, you yelled ‘I have a really good idea,’ and then you made us all leave.”

Tony looked at Peter, who was nearly hugging his danish now. Next to him, Carol had a hand clapped over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Jess was just slowly nodding, her expression kind of pitying. Tony looked back at Okoye. “I had a really good idea,” he said.

“I heard,” she said. “In fact, everyone heard.” She turned back to the coat rack, setting her handbag neatly on the hook. “And what, exactly, was that?”

Tony rubbed idly at the curve of his shoulder. “Apparently even after your prices, I had enough to pay for some new ink.”

“Mmmm, you do enjoy living beyond your means,” Okoye said. She paused, looking down at Peter, who curled into himself, his eyes huge as he peered back at her. “Ah. This one survived as well. Shuri will be pleased.”

Peter raised one hand in a weak wave. “Tell her hi for me.”

“She will text you if she wishes to hear from you again,” Okoye said. She loomed over him, her eyes going into slits. “Should she do so? You will reply. Immediately.”

Peter swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She straightened up. “We have reached an understanding. Good.” She looked at Tony. “You. You bring a minor into our place again, I will personally have your spine. I will use it as a cane, when I am old and feeble, to beat men like you half to death, well, well into my declining years.”

“I’ll leave it to you in my will, and T’Challa didn’t have a problem with it,” Tony pointed out.

“He is only the owner,” Okoye said. “As the head of security?” She gave him a pleasant smile. “I make sure he does not have to have a problem with it.” She stabbed a finger in his direction. “No minors.”

“Look, he was only there out of misplaced loyalty and a healthy fear of Pepper,” Tony said. She just stared at him, and he held up his hands. “Fine. Fine. No minors.” He tried to fold his arms and flinched as his shoulder pulled against the gauze. “I’m never drinking again, anyway.”

“No one believes you, Tony,” Moondragon said. 

“Yeah, but we have to live with him, so we pretend,” Peter said. Tony gave him a look, and Peter turned his attention back to his danish. “Right. The… The shutting up thing.”

“Yes,” Tony agreed. “The ‘shutting up thing.’”

Okoye looked at Moondragon. “Is that a chocolate croissant?”

“I’ll fight you for them,” Moondragon said, tossing her magazine down.

Okoye smiled. “Knives or bare fists?”

“I’m in,” Carol said immediately. “I don’t even care about the croissants. I missed one brawl last night, I’m not missing another one.”

Tony looked at Jess, who shrugged. “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” she said, digging through the discarded bags, looking for more food. “Is the book club the kind of club that has snacks? Cause I’m down for speed reading the book while the brawl is happening and then jumping in when we get to the part with frittatas or mimosas or-”

Nebula opened her desk drawer. “I got half a bag of off brand Bugles,” she said, holding them up. “Expiration date unknown.”

Jess held up her hands. “I’m easy.” Nebula tossed them over, and she smiled up at Okoye. “Okay, what am I reading?”

Okoye reached for her handbag. “‘Reclaiming Female Agency: Feminist Art History After Postmodernism.’”

“Right,” Jess said, as Okoye handed over a massive text. She nodded, very slowly. “This is going to require a lot of skimming.”

“I would get started,” Okoye said. To Tony, she said, “So, you are back to finish your tattoo?”

“I am back to fire my tattoo artist,” Tony said.

Okoye glanced at Nebula, who shrugged. “It didn’t take.”

“It never does, with him,” Okoye said. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve banned him?”

“ANYWAY,” Tony said. “No. I got my tattoo while drunk. Last night. What kind of idiot would get a tattoo at this time of the morning?” 

The door to one of the back rooms opened and Clint walked out, still in the process of fastening his pants. As everyone looked in his direction, he wobbled his way across the floor. “Thanks for the quickie.”

Caiera, the last artist of the Galactic Ink Collective, wandered out right behind him. “My pleasure,” she said. Her eyes flicked down towards Clint’s ass, and she smiled, one hip cocked. “Come back anytime.”

Rhodey, two steps behind them, was shaking his head. “You’re an idiot,” he told Clint. “You’re…” He looked at Tony. “How did this become my job?”

“Because you said you didn’t want to be part of the yelling out here,” Tony said. “And he flails unless he’s got someone to hold his hand.”

“I do not,” Clint started, and Nebula cut him off.

“You flop around like a beached whale,” she said, the words flat.

Rhodey glanced from Nebula to Tony and back. “Is the yelling over?” he asked, as Clint made hurt noises in Nebula’s direction.

“Yelling was disappointingly short lived, actually,” Moondragon said. “Tony, when do you want to schedule your next appointment?”

“I hate you all and can’t wait for this to heal up so I can get it lasered off,” Tony told her.

“Try it, I dare you,” Nebula said. She grasped the handle of the knife holding her page in place. “I’ll find you.” She wrenched the knife free with a smooth, vicious movement and handed the paper over to Tony. “There.”

Tony looked at it. “I want to hate it,” he said, slipping the paper from her fingers. “But I don’t.”

Rhodey looked over his shoulder. “I like it,” he said.

“It’s better than what Clint got, I’m sure of that much.”

“Right, I don’t-”

Clint grinned. “Kiss the cook,” he said. “In fancy script.”

“Did I ask?” Tony asked.

“Right under his belly button,” Rhodey said.

“DID I ASK?” Tony repeated.

“I used my fanciest script, with all the flourishes,” Caiera said, grinning. “And put a teeny tiny little heart as the dot on the exclamation mark.” She stripped her gloves off and tossed them at the trash can. “Totally on the house.”

“Classy,” Tony said.

“Can I see?” Jess asked, and Clint reached for the button of his pants.

“Tony?” Nebula braced her chin on one hand. “Unless you’d like to join us for a rousing discussion of colonialist themes in modern art styles, it’s time to go.”

Tony nodded. “How many of these people do I have to take with me?”

“I want to shave my head,” Carol said, staring up at Caiera, who ran a hand over her own buzzed skull.

“You’d look boss,” she said.

“Right,” Tony said. “Time to go.”

*

Steve ducked around the nearest corner, doing his best to avoid eye contact with every person he passed. Luckily, most of them seemed just as interested in avoiding him. By the time he found a relatively quiet corner at the end of a deserted corridor, he almost had his blood pressure back under control.

Bracing his back against the wall, he dug his phone out of his pocket. There were half a dozen text notifications, and he ignored every one of them without so much as a second thought. He’s pay for that later, he just knew it, but at the moment, he really didn’t care.

He just wanted to talk to Tony.

He cradled his phone against his ear, his gaze locked on the shiny toes of his shoes as he listened to it ring. His pulse was throbbing behind his temples, his jaw painfully tight. He sucked in a breath from between his teeth, and the air hissed with each breath.

He just wanted to talk to Tony. 

The line connected with a click, and there was a second of silence. Then, “Hi, uh, Tony Stark’s phone?”

Steve blinked. “Hi Tony Stark’s Phone,” he replied, a reluctant smile curving his mouth. “Which sounds a lot like Tony Stark’s Assistant. This is Tony Stark’s boyfriend.”

“Yeah, uh, your name came up on the phone, and the picture he has attached to your phone number is, it’s just wow. Really.”

“Is he naked?” A female voice in the background. “Is it a naked picture? Can I see the naked picture?”

“It’s not- Jesus! What kind of deviant do you think I am?”

Steve’s head tipped backwards, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling at the sound of Tony’s voice. 

“No, but there’s, like, it’s from behind and his pants are really tight,” Peter said. “Sorry, Steve. I’m not trying to look at your butt, but this picture is pretty much all butt and-”

Steve choked on a laugh. “I’ll forgive you,” he said, trying to sound stern. “Tony, maybe not so much. Can I talk to him, Peter?”

“Uh, Rhodey is shaking his head ‘no’ at me,” Peter said. “Because Tony insisted on driving.”

“I can talk to him and drive,” Tony said, his voice coming from a distance, and the sound of blaring horns in the background put lie to that. Tony yelled something, and Steve was pretty sure that was an obscenity. “Give me the phone, Parker.”

“Don’t give him the phone.” The woman’s voice again, and it sounded familiar, but the connection wasn’t good enough for Steve to identify it. “I’d like to live through the day.”

“Pete?” Steve braced a hand on his hip, trying to get some of the tension out of his shoulders.

“Steve?”

“Where, exactly, are you?” Steve asked him.

“Uh…” He could almost see the expression on Peter’s face as he twisted around, considering that. “Ninth street?”

“Dial it back, Peter,” Steve said. 

There was the sound of a scuffle, and then the woman’s voice again. “Hey, it’s Carol,” she said. “We’re in the SUV. Tony’s driving, Rhodey’s riding shotgun, Peter’s on time out in between me and Jess, and Clint’s in the trunk.”

“Why is Clint in the trunk?” Steve asked, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Because Peter refused to sit on anyone’s lap and we were out of seats,” Carol said. 

“I’m okay!” 

“Is he actually okay?” Steve asked Carol. “Hello, by the way.”

“Hi! He’s fine,” Carol said. “Despite drinking his weight in vodka last night. Meanwhile, Tony’s hungover-”

“I’m not hungover!” Tony called.

“He looks like someone hit him in the face with a cast iron skillet and he needs a shave,” Carol said. “Rhodey’s doing better.”

“Rhodey’s not doing better,” Rhodey called. “I damn well look better, but that’s not hard.”

“Can I have my phone, please?” Tony asked.

“No,” Carol told him.

“How much did he drink?” Steve asked, amused despite himself.

“Look, I came into this late, but I’m going to say, ‘a lot.’” A pause. “What do you think, Jess? ‘A lot?’”

“I’m not talking to Steve,” Jess said. “He left town and he didn’t call us. We could’ve run his truck.”

“We had three jobs, Drew.”

“I don’t care, I could’ve DRIVEN the TRUCK.”

“She’s upset with you,” Carol said to Steve.

“I’m getting that,” Steve said. “I’ll make it up to her.”

“Tell him I want a t-shirt from Washington,” Jess said.

Carol sighed. “I’m not asking him to buy you a present, Jess. In that you’re not five, and he’s not your father on a business trip.”

Steve smiled at the far wall of the corridor. “It’ll be a tacky bootleg one,” he said.

“Perfect.” Some mumbled words in the background, then, “I think Peter wants one, too.”

“I don’t!” Peter yelled. “I didn’t ask. I-”

“I want one,” Clint said.

“Everyone’s getting a bad tourist t-shirt,” Steve said. “Can I talk to Tony if speakerphone is involved?”

“Yes, but we’ll be judging your conversation, so, feel free to have phone sex,” Carol said cheerfully.

“Don’t try me, I’ll do it,” Tony said, over the general cries of distress There was a shuffling sound of the phone being handed over. “Shut up, all of you! It’s my car, I’ll talk about my dick if I want to!”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to laugh. “Tony…”

“Rhodes is a bad influence,” Tony said. “Jess and Carol are determined to eat me out of house and home, Clint’s burrowing through my stuff right now-”

“You’ve got some good stuff back here,” Clint agreed.

“And Parker left half a durian milkshake in the back of my car, and now everything smells like dead socks dipped in rotten dairy,” Tony said. 

“It was almost done!” Peter said

“I don’t care if it was an empty cup, it’s a biohazard and I’m going to have to clean my upholstery with fire at this point, Peter, and if I get a creme brulee torch, you’d better start running!”

Steve waited, but that seemed to be the end of the rant. “How much did you drink last night?”

“I honestly don’t remember, ask Parker, he’s like a Medieval monk back there, keeping a sad and melancholy record of my own personal Black Death,” Tony said.

Steve nodded. “Why, exactly?”

“Pepper paid me,” Peter said.

“Well, that’s an excellent reason,” Steve said. 

“He’s a mercenary, I’ve always known that, but now I’ve got proof,” Tony said. “But my memories of last night are a bit… Hazy.” Steve heard him take a deep breath. “We’re retracing our steps.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve said. “Rhodey, you still going to be around when I get home?”

“I’ve got leave, so unless Tony lands us in jail today, sure,” Rhodey said. 

“I have a bail fund, don't know what the rest of you are going to do,” Tony said. “When are you coming home, Steve?”

“Tomorrow morning, unless Isaiah decides we’re doing a sit in when we’re done testifying,” Steve said. He took a breath, and it didn’t hurt. He straightened up. “If we do, I’m going to need that bail fund of yours, Tony.”

“It, and everything else I’ve got, is yours.”

Steve’s eyes slid shut. “I love you.”

 

“Awwwwww.”

Steve paused. “Was… That Clint?”

“Fuck you, I’m a romantic!”

“I love you, too,” Tony said, “and I’m never letting Clint into my car again.”

“That’s what cabs are for,” Steve said. He looked up the corridor. “I need to get back.”

“Make us proud, Rogers,” Carol said.

“I’ll do my best,” Steve said. “Tony? Maybe lay off the alcohol for the rest of the day?”

“Steve?” He heard Tony sigh. “Not a problem.”

Steve smiled. “I love you,” he repeated, because saying it was nice, it was… Nice to say it, in front of their friends, and to feel it, down in his bones. “Wish me luck.”

“I love you, and good luck. Kick some ass,” Tony said, and Steve hung up before he could.

“Right,” he said to no one in particular. He squared his shoulders. “Right. Time to do just that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Tony's tattoo shop is run by three bald ladies from Spaaaaaaaaace. 8)
> 
> Moondragon: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moondragon  
> Nebula: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nebula_(comics)  
> Caiera: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caiera


	3. Chapter 3

“So. You had a busy night.”

Tony leaned his weight into the rolling pin, his teeth clenched against the throbbing pain behind his temples. “I’m getting that impression, yeah.” 

“I appreciate the business.” Shiro shook his head, ladling steaming hot broth into bowls with a quick, practiced hand. His black hair was swept back under a red and yellow bandana, an apron tied around his narrow waist. “But even for you, busy night,” he said, reaching past Tony for a steamer basket. He eyed the dough with a faint frown of disapproval. “Maybe-”

Tony pointed the rolling pin in his direction. “Don’t start with me.”

Shiro held up his hands, muttering something unintelligible under his breath in Japanese. He grabbed noodles from the tray, curling them into a neat pile in the palm of his hand and dropping them into the basket before plunging it into the boiling water. “Needs to sit.”

“I know my gluten,” Tony said, his shoulders hunched as he worked the rolling pin across the span of the dough. “Don’t even-” He reached over to the bowl, scooping flour up in the cradle of his fingers, scattering it across the surface of the dough. “I know my gluten.”

Shiro peered over his shoulder. “And I know udon,” he said. He patted Tony on the back and stepped back, moving past him in the claustrophobic space that made up his kitchen. The restaurant was barely more than a stand, a handful of stools set up in front of a counter that faced the prep area, and two tiny tables wedged into the remaining space beside the door. Light filtered in through the flapping cloth flags over the door and windows, and from the counter, Tony could see people darting past on the sidewalk outside. Despite the early hour, people still paused, peering in over the top of the ‘closed’ sign and testing the door to see if it was really locked.

Shiro set out rows of bowls, the movements swift and efficient. “You should try again.”

“It’s fine,” Tony gritted out, sliding his hand across the elastic, firm surface of the dough. It felt familiar under his fingertips, a sense of culinary deja vu that he always appreciated. “What can you tell by looking at it, anyway?” He looked up to find Shiro looking at him, his face disbelieving. Tony huffed out a breath. “It’s fine.”

Shiro poured the noodles into the broth with a twist of his wrist and reached for the bins of toppings. He added neat piles of sliced green onion, bean sprouts, seaweed and a fishcake, then sliced an egg in half with a quick flick of his knife. He settled the halves against the bed of noodles and set the bowl on the counter in front of Peter. “Enjoy,” he said, pushing the jar of disposable chopsticks into reach.

“Itadakimasu.” Peter reached for the chopsticks. “Can I have an extra egg?”

Tony paused, dusting flour from his hands, and realized that Peter was staring at him, his face hopeful. “What?” he asked. “Why are you asking me? I’m not making it.”

“No, but you’re paying for it,” Peter said, struggling to separate his chopsticks. Clint reached out, took them from him, snapped them apart with a quick twist of his fingers, and handed them back.

“If he’s paying, I’m having a second bowl,” Clint said to Shiro.

Tony looked at Shiro. “Both of them are cut off,” he said, folding the sheet of dough over into thirds. He reached for a knife. “Both. Nothing more for either of them.”

Shiro laughed as he wiped down the counter. “Clint, fine. He’s ruined six ‘spicy ramen challenge days’ in a row.”

“I have an asbestos lined digestive system,” Clint said with a proud grin.

“That’s… That’s not something to brag about,” Tony told him.

Clint shrugged. “I take what I can get,” he said, shoving a pile of noodles into his mouth.

Shiro set a second egg in a bowl and handed it over to Peter. “But you? You’re my favorite.” Shiro shifted trays of gyoza onto the racks behind the counter. “I’d say it’s on the house, but I want him to pay.”

“Emotionally or, you know, money?” Tony asked, slicing the dough into thin, even noodles. 

“Take your pick.” Shiro refilled Carol and Jess’ teacups and peered over the counter. “More?”

Jess put the empty plate back in reach. “I’m going to die,” she said. “But I’m going to die happy.” On the stool next to her, Carol was munching her way through a pile of rice and toppings, her eyes half closed. “Thank god I’m not paying for all this.”

“Know what? I’m skipping out the back,” Tony said, “and leaving you with the bill.” He gathered up the piles of noodles, twisting them into neat knots, ready to be cooked. He took a step back. “Well?”

Shiro flipped another order of gyoza onto the griddle and covered them with a lid to steam, a faint smile on his face. “I told you, before you wasted your time. Try again.”

Tony took a deep breath. “I’ve had a very tough twenty-four hours,” he said. “All I’m asking is that you honor my attempt to be a semi-decent father to my half-Japanese child and cook my damn noodles, Yoshida.”

Shiro held out two baskets without a word. Tony dropped a pile of noodles into each one, feeling like an old west gunfighter standing in the middle of a deserted street, watching the tumbleweeds roll past. 

The knock on the door made him jump.

Jess hopped off of her stool, reaching across the narrow space and unlocking the door long enough for Rhodey to slip through. “Thanks,” he said, nodding at her. “Did you save me a-”

Jess was already shaking her head. “No,” she said.

He grinned. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” He grabbed the open stool between Clint and Carol, and reached for the teapot. “So that was my mother,” he said, his voice bright. “On the phone. Calling me. At this hour.”

“Is that better or worse than your Commanding Officer?” Tony asked, watching his noodles cook with a suspicious glare. 

“I’m gonna say better,” Rhodey said. “In that my mother can’t bring me up on charges and have me dishonorably discharged.”

“She can make Thanksgiving very awkward, though,” Tony said.

“Trust me. So can a four star general,” Rhodey said. He watched, eyebrows arched, as Shiro pulled the noodles out of the water and poured them into the bowls of broth. “She says that her sewing circle watched your video.”

“Right,” Tony said, piling vegetables onto the ramen. “Right. How…” He paused, his hands braced on the counter. “How did that go?”

“She says my Aunt Patricia says you’re a strange, strange man, but she’ll take you up on your offer.” Rhodey dropped his phone on the counter.. He looked at it. He looked at Tony. “What did you say to my aunt, Stark?”

“I know that this is a refrain that you’ve heard a dozen times or more today,” Tony said, setting a bowl precisely in front of Rhodey, “but fuck if I know.”

“Oh,” Peter said, his eyes comically wide. “HIS Aunt Patricia.”

Everyone looked at Peter. He nodded. “Oh. Yeah. That…” He slurped up a noodle. “That makes more sense.”

“More sense?” Tony repeated, as Rhodey picked up some chopsticks. “More sense than WHAT?”

“Any other option,” Peter said.

Tony stared at him. “How many options were there?” He put together the second bowl of ramen with practiced ease. “What the hell, Parker, were there options we don’t know about?”

“There are so many options,” Peter said.

“What-”

“Has you considered that it would be easier to just… Watch the video?” Shiro asked Tony.

“That would be easier, but also I’m enjoying the last, declining moments of blissful ignorance,” Tony said, setting the bowl in front of him and reaching for a pair of chopsticks.. He inclined his head in a half-bow. “Itadakimasu.” 

He scooped up a noodle, his eyes closing as he chewed. For a long moment, there was silence, as everyone waited for him. Finally, he opened his eyes, and nodded. “Goddammit.”

Across the counter, Rhodey nodded back. “Too soft,” he said, taking another bite. “Overcooked?”

“Any less cook time, and they would still be raw.” He pushed the bowl over towards Shiro, who reached for his own set of chopsticks. “The noodle should have a dense, firm chewiness, it should have a presence that matches the broth, that stands up to the crunch of the vegetables, but this-”

Shiro popped a noodle in his mouth. “Doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t.” Tony agreed. He scraped a hand over his face. “Fine. How do I get better?”

“Don’t be so impatient,” Shiro told him, taking another bite. His eyes narrowed, he took his time chewing. “It is good. If it wasn’t you, it would pass muster. But you know better.” He shook his head. “Ramen can be served quickly, because the time is spent where the diner cannot see. The broth, the noodle, the ingredients, all of that requires patience.”

Tony leaned against the counter. “I’m not good at patience,” he said.

“Yes,” Shiro said, holding up a noodle. “I noticed.”

“It’s pretty obvious,” Carol said, passing the plate of gyoza over to Rhodey.

Rhodey took one with a pleased grin. “How did you learn?”

“My grandfather followed me around yelling at me that every subpar bowl of soup I served was a dagger in the heart of my entire family, living and dead,” Shiro said.

There was a long beat of silence. “Wow,” Clint said.

“And that worked?” Tony asked, amused despite himself.

“Let’s just say, I was motivated,” Shiro said. He nodded. “I was very motivated.”

Tony popped a noodle in his mouth, closing his eyes as he chewed. He swallowed. “Yeah, is he still around? I’m willing to try it.”

“He is, but he doesn’t speak English.”

“I think that would help, actually.”

*

“So this is where you’re hiding.”

“Not hiding.” Steve fished the washcloth out of the bucket of bleach water, running it across the tabletop with careful precision. “Recess.”

“Just like being back in grade school, huh?” Isaiah walked around the far side of the table, his cane thumping across the floor with each step. He leaned over, considering the tabletop with a scowl. “Missed a spot.”

“No, I didn’t,” Steve said, returning the cloth to the bucket, soaking it and wringing it out.

Isaiah gave a snort. “All right, then, Mr. Perfect.” He pulled out a seat, sinking down into it with a faint groan. “Can’t believe you made an old man chase you all the way down here.”

“Nobody asked you to,” Steve said, scrubbing the table with enough force to shift it on its legs.

“You here for him?”

Isaiah looked up. “Ah, yes,” he said, folding his hands on the head of his cane. “He causing you trouble, ma’am?”

The elderly lady paused next to him, a bin of dishes braced on one hip, her neatly pressed uniform barely disturbed by the weight. She gave Steve a look. “Customers aren’t supposed to be doing the cleaning,” she said.

“He’s a cook, ma’am, wiping down tables is second nature to him,” Isaiah said with a smile. “Keeps him out of trouble, for the most part.”

She sighed. “Uh-huh.” She picked up a coffee cup from a nearby table. “If he heads for the flat top, I’m going to have to call for security.”

“Absolutely understandable,” Isaiah said. “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise, won’t cause you any more problems.”

She gave Isaiah a faint smile. “He’s going to ruin that nice suit of his.”

“Well, I’d say that’s his problem, isn’t it?” Isaiah said with a puckish grin. “Steve, maybe you should-”

She waved him off. “I’ll get you both a cup of coffee. Just…” Her eyes slid towards Steve. “No mopping, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said, scrubbing the table down with quick, methodical movements. She moved away, and he scowled down at the gleaming surface. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

Isaiah’s cane tapped against the floor. “You seem just fine now,” he said, his voice quiet. “Other than running a real risk of ending up with your tie in a bleach bucket.”

“As if that’s the worst thing I have to deal with today,” Steve said. He braced his hands on the table, leaning into them. He took a deep breath, and another. “I’m trying.”

Isaiah’s head tipped to the side, leaning forward so he could meet Steve’s eyes. “I know.”

“I’m really, really trying,” Steve said, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, absolutely.” Isaiah’s cane tapped again, once, twice. “I’m just not sure why, to be honest.”

Steve gave him a look. “Because you invited me here,” he said, spreading his hands. “Here. To Congress. To testify in front of that-” He choked the words back, locking his teeth together and taking a slow, deep breath through his nose. He let it out. “Everything I do here is going to reflect on you, and your organizations, and I’m trying, Isaiah, I’m really trying to keep my mouth shut.”

“But it’s hard,” Isaiah said, sympathetic.

“It’s hard enough that when we get a break, the best thing I can think of to do is to go down to the public cafeteria and wipe down tables, because at least then I feel like I’m doing something of some worth and I’m also not going to say anything I’m going to regret.” He took a breath. “And I know I’m going to regret it, Isaiah.”

Isaiah shrugged. “Most of the time, you don’t.”

Steve looked up at him. “I would. This time. I think I would.”

Isaiah smiled. “Steve Grant Rogers,” he said, his voice amused, “I know you better than anyone alive, with the possible exception of that Barnes boy.” 

Steve struggled against a smile. “Only leaving that as a possible, huh?”

“He’s a bit of a dumbass, Steve, you know he is,” Isaiah responded. He rocked forward in his chair. “The point being, I know you. I know you damn well. I invited you along to testify, and, whether you know it or not, I knew just what I was getting when I did that.”

Steve stared at him. “You knew I might lose my temper.”

Isaiah shrugged. “Knew it? I was counting on it.” His eyebrows arched. “If I wanted calm and cheerful, I’ve got two dozen or so board members who pride themselves on being proper, polite citizens, who find open debate distasteful and would certainly not dream of making a spectacle of themselves.”

“And you invited me,” Steve said.

“And I invited you,” Isaiah said with a broad smile. “Because polite, proper citizens won’t get anything changed for us today. You-” He reached out, poking Steve in the chest with one bony finger. “Might just make so progress. You’ll sure as hell make headlines. If you’ll just unclench your teeth and step up to the damn microphone.”

Understanding dawned, and with it, a sense of almost overwhelming relief. “You old goat. You’re pushing me under the bus.”

Isaiah gave him an innocent look. “I’m an old black man, beholden to a wide variety of social charities and government agencies to try to feed the absolutely most disenfranchised people in the city of New York,” he said. “You, meanwhile, are a young, attractive white boy who is eloquent, charismatic, and make your money from people who pay Tony Stark the equivalent of a month’s rent for a single meal and then come out and stand on the curb and pay you to actually feed them. And you taking Congress to task is only going to act as free advertising for you.” He spread his hands. “Am I throwing you under the bus? Boy, the bus is going to speed straight up to you and do an instant u-turn.”

Steve sank down into a chair. “You want me to go off on them,” he said.

“Absolutely nothing in the world would make me happier,” Isaiah said, just as the staffer returned, a cup of coffee in each hand. He leaned back in his seat. “What do you know. I was wrong. This. This cup of coffee makes me happier.” He reached out, taking it from her. “We do apologize, ma’am, the session’ll be starting back up soon, so we’ll be out of your hair.” 

“Glad to hear it.” She handed Steve the other cup, considering the tabletop. “Well. Not a bad job.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He wrapped his hands around the cup, savoring the heat. 

She looked at the bleach bucket. “We done here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Glad to hear it.” She picked it up. “Come back for lunch, I can always use the help after the rush.”

“If we’re not escorted out of the building by security, I’m sure we will,” Isaiah said.

“I’d recommend the bean soup,” she said with an easy smile and a wave.

Isaiah watched her go and held up his cup. “If we are mark'd to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honor.”

Steve held his cup up. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Isaiah’s teeth flashed in a sharp grin. “Burn it down and salt the earth, Rogers.”

Steve clicked his cup against Isaiah’s. “That, I can do.”

*

The video started with a rattle of static and the sound of someone saying, “-Probably isn’t a good idea, maybe-”

Tony, his hair a tangle and his cheeks flushed, leaned towards the camera, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is this thing on?” he asked.

There was a long, long pause, where Tony just stared at the camera as if it had talked bad about his second course, and then, the voice from off-screen said, “Are… Are you asking me?”

“I am asking the camera, Parker, but since it’s not answering, fuck it, yes, you can give me your best guess.” Tony flopped back into his seat, all loose limbs and easy grace. He pushed a hand through his hair and almost fell sideways out of the seat. “Is this on?”

“Yes,” Peter said from off camera.

Tony stared at it, his eyebrows drawn up tight. “You’re sure.”

“There’s… There’s a light, Tony, it’s… It’s on?”

Tony waved him off, his hand flailing through the air. “Right. Right. Stop… Stop talking now.” He glared at the camera. “Hey, fuckers.”

Another beat, then Peter said, “Hey?” in his most tentative voice and Tony reached for a pad of paper next to his computer keyboard. He ripped a sheet free, crumbled it up, and threw it off camera in the general direction of Peter’s voice.

One second. Two. Three. Then, Peter said, “Ow?”

“Damn right,” Tony said, turning his attention back to the camera. “Hey, fuckers that aren’t Parker. Let’s just start by saying, if you work at a chain restaurant, I’m not talking to you. If you work for a place where corporate makes your front of house change the fucking phone book sized menu more than five times a year, this isn’t about you. If you’ve ever been forced to use the words ‘taste explosion’ or ‘cultural fusion’ or ‘bar-tastic!’ when describing food, you have my sympathies.

“Seriously. I’ve been there. I’ve learned about menu items from a Super Bowl commercial. I’ve had some asshole in marketing decide that 2.5 million dollars in signage had to be discarded because ‘cheese stuffed’ didn’t play as well to focus groups as ‘mozzarella morsels.’ I’ve cooked some hellish stuff because the home office said that everyone was ‘doing’ kale despite the fact that, you know, fuck, no one wants ‘Krispy Kale Pizza.’”

He paused, and then, in dire tones, he said, “No. One.”

Tony rocked back in his seat. “So. You guys. You keep doing what you’re doing, we’re good. You’ve got a hard job and ninety-nine percent of you are rocking it every step of the way, I’m proud of you, because, honestly? Honestly?” He tossed a hand up in a half-shrug. “Sometimes, you just have to go to Olive Garden.”

“Sometimes your Auntie wants Olive Garden.” Rhodey’s voice echoed up from behind Tony. A moment later, his hand waved into the view. “And you love your Auntie, so you’re gonna go eat goddamn breadsticks.”

“Yeah, that’s, that’s true,” Tony said, bracing his chin on one hand. “Auntie Patricia, you call me. Anytime. We’ll get a salad and some soup, I don’t know, fettuccine. Something that passes for fettuccine. You get what you want.” He pointed at the screen. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Rhodey echoed from the general direction of the ground.

“Right. He loves you, too.” Tony folded his hands in front of him. “So if you work for Olive Garden, you guys, you’re fine. Your TGIFridays, your Applebees, your Outback Steakhouses, all of you, we’re good. You’re fine. I’m not talking to you.” He sat up, his eyes wide. “Okay? Okay.”

Tony leaned back into his seat, his hands folded over his stomach. “Hello, Chefs of New York. You’re bad at your job.”

In the silence that followed, Peter said, “Oh, boy.”

Tony ignored him. “Not all of you, of course. Not even most of you. But some of you fuckers? The ones who have a Michelin star or more on the door? The ones with shiny magazine covers with your smug little faces on it framed in the front lobby? The ones charging fifty dollars or more a plate for an entree?”

He smiled. “If your kid’s menu involves frozen chicken nuggets? You’re bad at your job. If your ‘gluten-free’ option is the same thing you serve everyone else but with half the ingredients taken out and nothing to replace them? Then you’re a lousy chef. If your vegetarian option is a plate full of side dishes? Take your coat off, take your toque off, and get the fuck out of my, and every other, kitchen.”

Tony’s smile stretched into a vicious grin. “Because you’re bad. At. Your. Job.”

He rocked forward, the movement sharp and violent. “Your job is to feed people. Your job is to feed anyone, and everyone, who comes through your doors, to the best of your ability. You want to call yourself a Chef? Then, fuck you! Do. Your. JOB.”

He surged to his feet. “You can’t just make a meat based dish into a vegetarian one by taking out the meat. You can’t make a gluten free dish by removing the wheat. That’s, that’s like, taking a size two dress and thinking it’ll still look fine if you just, make it bigger. It’s not going to look fine, it’s an insult to the designer, AND the person trying to wear the dress.”

Someone, probably Peter, nudged the camera up until Tony’s face could be seen again. “You build a dish around something and then just, you know, take it out, then fuck you, it’s going to be bad. And what that says is that you want this person’s money, but you consider them an annoyance. The same fuckers who are pitching diva hissy fits about someone asking to have the sauce on the side, or asking for an alteration in the spice level, and I see that, I see that behavior and you should be ashamed, I’m ashamed for you and I’m over here on the other side of the room pretending I don’t know you, Jesus, I really wish I didn’t because you’re insufferable, goddaaaaaaaaamn.”

He paused, blinking. “What was I saying?”

“Diva hissy fits-” Peter started, and Tony cut him off.

“FUCKERS,” he yelled. “Looking down your nose at someone who wants you to change your so-called fucking art, but then, the moment you have to feed someone with a lift-threatening allergy, or a dietary requirement, and you’re just annoyed by the entire thing. You’re just-”

His eyes closed. “You’re a chef,” he said, his voice aching. “You. Are a chef. Fucking ACT like it. Put thought into every menu item. If the only people leaving your restaurant happy are the ones who can and will adhere to your personal tastes?”

Tony collapsed back in his chair. “You’re bad at your job. And you should get a new one.”

“And trust me, I can hear the comments already. ‘Oh my kid is picky. My kid only wants hot dogs. I’m not paying for real food for my kid he won’t eat it.’ Fuck.” Tony scraped a hand over his face. “Do you know how easy it is to make a kid happy? Even a picky kid?” he asked. “Kids like control. Kids like to feel like they can choose. Why the fuck do you think fucking Lunchables is a thing? Everything in a Lunchable is trash! Everything!” His voice rose to a dangerous pitch. “But kids love them! Because they get to choose!”

He braced a hand on the desk. “So you let them build their own. Fill ramekins with shredded carrots and chopped mushrooms and cubes of roast chicken. Give them tiny rice paper wraps or taco shells. Give them cheese and dressing and lettuce and let them make their own dinner.” He shook his head. “Stir fry tableside, or toss their pasta while they watch, in whatever mess of stuff they want. And if you have to, have to, have to include the words ‘chicken nuggets’ on your menu and Jesus Christ, I don’t think you do, you have a full kitchen. You have a full staff. Learn how to fry some real goddamn fried chicken and if you look in your freezer today and anything in there says ‘Tyson pre-breaded,’ well, then, FUCK YOU.”

Tony stopped. “You. Are a chef. And, like, I get it, you trained hard, you’ve got the fancy degrees and the title and the profiles in some in-flight magazine somewhere, but here’s the truth. You’re a short order cook in a fancy fucking hat. You feed people. If you can’t do that, to the best of your ability, to the best of your creativity and knowledge and with all your skill, for every single person who sits down at your tables, then, really?” He shook his head. “You need to find another job.”

He exhaled, a long, drawn out sigh. “Right. That’s all I have to say, so-” He stopped. “Wait. No. One other thing. Diners.” He stabbed a finger at the camera. “Diners of New York. If I hear one more person complaining about the cost of Chinese food in this city, or Mexican food, I’m gonna have to start beatdowns.

“Because done right, done the way it’s meant to be done, both of those cuisines are as labor intensive, as specialized, as carefully considered, as any French or German meal you’re likely to get. The skill required, the knowledge, the labor, it’s all there, but we expect these cuisines to be cheap because we as a country vastly undervalue the worth of the labor provided by Chinese and Mexican people.”

He smiled. “You expect it to be cheap because you think the people making it should be working for cheap and that’s super fucking racist, cut that shit out.”

Tony reached for his coffee cup. “To recap. Chefs of New York. Stop being fucking lazy. Diners of New York. Stop being fucking racist.” He saluted the camera with his cup. “And we’ll all get fat and happy and probably die of clogged arteries because goddamn, kale is still fucking nasty and if I hear the word ‘superfood’ one more fucking time I’m going to clock someone in the back of the head with a frying pan, Bugs Bunny style.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. He took a sip from his cup. “Aunt Patricia, call me. I want some fucking zuppa toscana. I just-” He nodded. “Call me.” He took another sip, then paused, his face crumpling in confusion. He looked down at the coffee cup. “Is this… Maple syrup?”

“Yes,” Peter said, sounding resigned, and the video ended with a click.

*

There was a long moment of silence.

As one, everyone looked at Tony. Tony just took a long sip of his milkshake, the straw rattling against the bottom of his cup as he drained it, his eyes locked on his phone. He set the cup down on what remained of Mjolnir’s bar, and then the phone next to it. “Honestly,” he said, “that wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting.”

“You alienated half of the city’s culinary scene in one three minute video,” Fury said, as Thor collected Tony’s empty cup and returned to his blender. Fury considered Tony over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow arched. “That’s efficient. Even for you.”

“Two things,” Tony said, licking his straw. “One? I’m right. And two? If they’re taking offense then they were doing something offensive.” He spread his hands. “How is that my fucking problem?”

“He’s not wrong,” Natasha said, her lips pursed around her straw. She and Clint were sharing a Scorpion Bowl filled with milkshake. 

“He’s usually right, that’s the problem,” Clint mused from his side of the bowl. He poked at the flame in the center with his straw. “He’d be less annoying if he was less right.”

“Bite your tongue, I was always going to be annoying,” Tony told them.

“Question,” Jess said, wiggling her straw in midair.

“Please hold all questions to the end of the-” Tony started and Nat kicked his stool, and that was the last straw, the leg gave way with a crack, and Tony had to grab for the bar to keep from ending up on his ass. He clawed his way back to his feet. “What the hell, Romanov?”

“I could not possibly have known that would happen,” she pointed out with a smile. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m pleased that it did. But I can’t be held accountable for it.”

“Ignore them. They’ll be at this for a while. What’s your question?” Fury asked, plucking a pickled egg out of the oversize jar with a fork.

“Why didn’t you delete that?” Jessica asked Peter, and Tony stopped dead.

Slowly, he turned. “Parker…”

Peter made a pained squeaking sound. “I did!” he said, holding his hands up in a pose of surrender. “I… I did! After we put you in the shower to sober up! I went back and pulled up the camera file and deleted the most recent video!”

“Oh.”

Every head swiveled in Clint’s direction. He was sitting at the bar, his eyes wide, his hands braced on the battered wood. His head dipped in a slow nod. “Oh,” he repeated.

Fury took a deep breath. “Barton, do I even want to know-”

Clint folded his hands in front of him, his eyes wide. “I… Might’ve done another video. After everyone left.”

“Another-” Tony stopped. “Wait, you put me in the shower?” he asked Peter. “You saw me naked?”

“I saw you naked,” Rhodey said. “For the…” He stopped, one eyebrow arching. “God, I’ve seen you naked way, way too much, Tony.”

“I helped him get you into the bathroom and got your shoes and shirt off and kept you from trying to drink Steve’s shampoo, because you said anything that smelled that good couldn’t REALLY be poisonous,” Peter babbled. “And I was like, no, bad idea, but you’re a lot stronger than you look-”

“Excuse me?” Tony said.

“And you look really strong,” Peter said, “But then-”

“Okay, so we were in the bathroom and Parker was having a crisis of some sort, where the hell were the two of you?” Tony asked Jess.

“Making s’mores on the gas range in your kitchen,” she said.

That was a horrifying thought. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much charcoaled marshmallow is on my counters?”

“Very little,” Jess said, in what was so clearly a lie that he didn’t even have the strength to argue with her about it. “Almost none.”

“Right, and you were…” Tony said to Clint.

“Making a deep, meaningful statement about environmental issues and popular culture in the current-”

Jess’ eyes went wide. “Wait. Wait.” She pointed at him. “Were you singing Baby Shark? I heard Baby Shark and thought I had, like, a head injury because Stark would not allow Baby Shark to be played in his house under any circumstances, but I KNOOOOOOOW I heard Baby Shark.”

“No,” Clint said, the word drawn out to a painful extent. Nat buried her head in her folded arms, which did nothing to stifle the sound of her laughter, and he elbowed her. “No. That would be-”

“Know what he did? He filmed himself singing Baby Shark in his underwear,” Jess said to Tony. “Because when Carol offered him the burnt marshmallows, he wandered into the kitchen and he didn’t have pants on.”

Tony stared at Clint. “Tell me she’s wrong.”

Clint nodded. “She’s wrong.”

“She’s absolutely right,” Fury said from behind him.

“Oh God, she is.” Tony pressed a hand to his face. “So. So. Rhodey and Peter went to pour me into the shower, those two-” He gestured at Jess and Carol. “Were lighting sugar on fire in my kitchen. And you stripped down to your shorts and sang a novelty song, until you were tempted by the leavings of their burnt sugar, and you went into the kitchen.

“And then Parker came out and deleted your video, thinking it was mine. And then later, are around-” Tony checked the timestamp on the video. “Three am, you went back to my computer and uploaded what you THOUGHT was a video of you in your underwear, singing Baby Shark to my YouTube channel.”

Clint thought about that. Next to him, Natasha was laughing so hard that she might’ve been crying. “Things are a little foggy, but yeah. Yeah, I think that’s the general timeline,” he said at last.

Tony nodded. He nodded again. “Can someone else-”

“For God’s sake, why?” Rhodey asked, and Tony pointed in his direction.

“Thank you, James, thank you, the only real friend I have, the only voice of reason in a world gone mad, really, I am grateful for your-”

“No, really,” Rhodey said, waving him off. “Clint. Why?”

“At the time, it seemed like a really sick burn,” Clint said. He nodded. “That might’ve been the alcohol talking, though.”

“You’re an idiot,” Tony told him.

“No one here understands my art!” Clint yelled.

Nat buried her face in his shoulder. “You’re an idiot, you really, really are.”

“What.. Oh my God.”

Tony turned around in time to see Pepper step over a pile of debris that used to be a table. “Oh. My. God.” Her head swiveled around, her eyes huge. “What- Tony, what did you DO?”

“Ducked, apparently,” Tony said. The bar was a disaster area, with splintered furniture, broken lighting fixtures, and piles of shattered bar ware littering the floor. The only area that appeared to have mostly remained intact was the spot behind the bar, since even mid-fight, no one had apparently been dumb enough to go for Thor.

“‘Tis not as bad as it looks,” Thor said, grinning easily as he finished a milkshake for Tony and poured it into a battered tin mug. “And due to past circumstances, I have most excellent insurance.” He looked around, his hands on his hips. “I look forward to redecorating.”

“But your premiums,” Pepper said. She nudged a mangled carving with one foot. “This will…”

“The premiums, my brother pays,” Thor said, grinning ear to ear. “Since the last two increases were most certainly his fault, we decided it was best if he were responsible for them.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sure he’ll have something to say about the bills, but I have little interest in listening.:

“I can’t believe I missed the bar fight,” Carol said, staring morosely at the ceiling. “I can’t…” She shook her head. “It’s just not fair.”

“You can break the mirror, if that would make you feel better,” Thor said. She went still, and he picked up the blender cup and offered it to her. “I have never liked it.”

Carol took it, and fired it at the mirror behind the bar like a speedball. The mirror shattered with a monumental crash, and Tony ducked, his hands coming up in an instinctive gesture. “Are you out of your mind?” he managed.

“Maybe,” Carol said.

“Did that help?” Thor asked.

“Absolutely,” Carol said.

“Then I am well pleased.” He shoveled the remains of a stack of plates into a garbage bag. “Ah.” He bent over, coming up with a single unbroken plate. He held it out to Carol. “If you would?” She flung it, frisbee style, into the nearest wall. Thor nodded. “As it should be.” 

“Thank you,” Carol said. “Really.” She reached over, clasping his hand in both of hers. “Thank you.”

He brought her hands up, pressing a light kiss to the back of her knuckles. “The pleasure is, as always, all mine,” he said, and went back to sweeping.

Pepper watched this, her face full of consternation. “I-” Her eyes closed. She reached for her purse, snapping it open with a flick of her fingers. “Parker.”

Peter gave a full body flinch, holding his milkshake cup up in front of his face like he could hide behind it. Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of amusement and pity. Natasha reached out, and pushed the cup down. “Take your medicine, Peter,” she said, and next to her, Clint had both their super long straws shoved under his upper lip. She looked at him. “What-”

“I’m a walrus,” Clint said. She just stared at him, and he flapped his hands like flippers. “Walrus.”

“And I am instantly not the most immature person in this room,” Peter said, squaring his shoulders. “I am… Not the most immature.”

“Not by a long shot.” Pepper pulled out a fifty dollar bill and held it out to Peter. He stared at it, an expression of fear rolling over his face. Pepper shook it. “Take it.”

Cautious, careful, Peter reached out. The second his fingers touched the bill, Pepper dropped it. “Congratulations,” she said, brushing off a stool and plopping herself down. “This is now one hundred percent your problem.”

Peter sat there, holding the fifty bucks. “Was… Was it not my problem before?”

“Before it was fifty percent your problem,” Tony said, taking the jar from Fury and stabbing an egg with a tiny plastic cocktail sword. “But you’re an idiot, and now it’s one hundred percent your problem.”

Peter held up the money. “I got paid,” he said. 

“And I wash my hands of it,” Pepper said. She braced an elbow on the bar, looking around. “Even for you, Tony, this is… This is a lot.”

“I thought I came off pretty well in that video,” he said. “And the rest is my own problem.”

“It certainly is,” Pepper said. She set her purse next to her on the bar and pulled out her phone. “What about Steve?”

“I mean, I’m sure that Steve is going to have some serious words for me about not being a complete idiot in public, but that ship has sailed and he knew what I was capable of when we started dating.”

“I don’t think any of us really know what you’re capable of,” Carol said. “We think we do. We’re pretty sure we know what we’re dealing with. And then-” She waved a hand at him. “You go right off the rails and we realize, nope. We have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

“Steve’s had more exposure, but still. I’m pretty much fucked no matter what,” Tony said. He held up the jar. “But I’ve got all the pickled eggs that I can eat, so, that’s a plus.”

Pepper nodded, her attention still focused on her phone. “You’ve had better days.”

“I’ve had worse, too,” Tony said. “Did you not hear me about the eggs?”

“I can smell the eggs, thank you, that’s close enough.” Pepper pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her head tipping to the side. “But I think you’re going to be fine. Because I just got notified of this tweet from user HouseInternAnon, which reads, and I quote, ‘Wow, this food truck guy is tearing the congressional committee about twelve new assholes.’”

There was a moment of stillness, and then, as one, everyone lunged for their phones.

Pepper, amused, flicked through the twitter thread. “And this retweet from ‘PoliticalAddict,’ ‘I thought there were only nine members of the committee.’”

Tony stared down at his Twitter app. “And the reply, ‘I meant twelve each,’” he said, his voice reverent. He looked up. “Right. Right. So.” He nodded. “I am so turned on right now I’m actually dizzy.”

“Information no one needed,” Pepper told him, trying her best to keep a straight face. “So. It would appear you’re not the only one making a spectacle of himself.”

“I pissed off the New York culinary scene, and he’s laying into Congress,” Tony pointed out. “The two are in no way equivalent.”

“You aren’t kidding.” Gleeful, Jess flicked through the threads, her grin only getting bigger with each page. “Oh. My. God.”

“I’m going to say words no one has ever said in this bar, and which no one ever expected to hear from me,” Clint said, leaning back on his chair. “Do you get CSpan? And can we watch it?”

“There’s a champagne bottle through the tv set,” Rhodey told him. “You can see that, right? The-” He gestured at the television. “The hole.”

“Pretty sure you can still get it working,” Clint said. Rhodey gave him a look, and Clint pointed finger guns in his general direction. “I have faith in you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Rhodey said, but he was trying not to smile.

“I’m going to have this tweet blown up to a poster size, and get it framed, and mount it on the wall of the restaurant,” Tony said. Across the bar, Carol was laughing hysterically, her head buried in her arms, and Natasha was dumping vodka straight into their Scorpion bowl, and Thor had given his broom to Peter. Tony grinned at him. “Don’t sweep for him, Parker. Don’t-”

“Maybe if you sweep for him, he’ll hire you and you’ll get out of that viper pit across the street,” Fury pointed out. Tony flipped him off, the gesture half-hearted, and Fury grinned at him. “See? Right there? That’s the level of class we’ve come to expect from you, Stark.”

“I understand broken plates,” Peter said, his sweeping almost melancholy. “I have a sympathy for broken plates.” He paused, his hands stacked on the top of the broom. “They are my only friends.”

“You need a new job,” Fury told him.

“You need an intervention,” Jess said, now going through her phone with one hand and Carol’s with the other.

“I need everyone here to stop interfering with my assistant,” Tony said. He stood up. “I’m… Just going to go… Do something.”

“If by ‘something’ you mean, ‘go to my own restaurant and start prepping for dinner because I have a full reservation list and two big holes in the culinary line up of this street,’ then I approve,” Pepper said. Tony opened his mouth. Before he could say a single word, Pepper took his milkshake. “Tony? If you don’t show up to work, then I’m not going to show up for work, and who exactly do you think is going to be answering your phone, which is already ringing off the hook?”

Tony considered that, his mouth pursed. He pointed at Peter.

“He’s hugging a broom, Tony,” Pepper said, her voice gentle. “He’s… Clinging to a broom like that will keep him afloat as the ship sinks around him.”

Tony looked at Peter. Peter shook his head. “I can’t…. I think I’ll throw up if you make me answer the phone, chef,” he said.

Tony leaned in. “Are you… Are you crying, Parker?”

“I might,” Peter said. He blinked. “Would… Would that work?”

“Probably not,” Tony said, and Pepper elbowed him in the side. He flinched away from her. “What?”

“Stop it,” she said, taking a sip of the milkshake. “We need him.”

“We… We really don’t,” Tony said, but Peter looked like a traumatized chick, all hunched shoulders and traumatized eyes. “Fine. We do. You’re a very important part of our corporate structure, Parker. And Pepper will teach you how to answer the phone.”

“Call me,” Fury mouthed at him.

Thor leaned against the bar. “‘When asked to cede the floor,’” he read aloud from his phone, “‘Chef Rogers responded ‘When history seeks to condemn a government for the treatment of its citizens, the harshest words are, and have always been, they let their people starve. In times of plenty, when the earth provides, if you let your people starve, history does not forget that, Congressman. No, I will not cede, no, I will not be silent.’”

“Was he arrested?” Rhodey asked. “Did… Did anyone find out if he was arrested?”

“Poster sized. I’m… I’m re-wallpapering my house,” Tony said.

“Go to work,” Pepper said.

He pointed at her. “I will go to work. On one condition.”

Pepper sipped the milkshake, one eyebrow arched.

“Find me a one hour printer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqZsoesa55w
> 
> Doo doo doo doot.


	4. Chapter 4

“I half expected you to call for bail money.” 

Steve hooked a thumb over his shoulder, still wiping down his flattop with his other hand. “Read the sign,” he said.

There was a moment of pause, and then Tony read aloud, “Free cookie if you don’t ask me anything about Congress.” He made a humming sound under his breath. “Has that worked at all?” he asked.

Steve heaved a sigh and turned, wiping his hands on a rag. “They’re really, really good cookies,” he said. Tony was leaning in his window, his hair damp and disordered, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows. He grinned up at Steve, and Steve felt the last of the tension go out of his chest. “Don’t suppose it’s working on you?”

Tony’s head tipped forward, his dark eyes glinting under the line of his brows. “Darling, it’s been three days since we’ve been in the same city and you’re so wound up that you’re almost vibrating in place.” His lips twitched up in a slight, knowing smile. “Pretty sure me getting my hands on your cookies is a sure thing.”

Steve stared at him. “That was horrible,” he said, trying to sound disapproving.

“Yeah, but you’re smiling.” Tony leaned over to pick up a discarded napkin, tucking it into the nearby trash can. “So it’s worth it.” He looked up. “Came creeping up to the curb tonight. Wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I was…” Steve’s jaw went tight. “I was done.”

“Watching the footage, I got that impression.” Tony folded up his menu sign, moving it to the back of the truck. “Luckily, I have spies everywhere.”

Steve nodded, scrubbing harder. “By which you mean, Sam.”

“By which I mean, Sam,” Tony agreed. He leaned a hand on edge of the serving window. “So, you gonna come out here and hug me, or do I have to keep standing here, looking pathetic, like that one kitten no one wants to adopt from the cardboard box in the grocery store parking lot?” He squinted up at the cloudless night sky, and nodded. “Looks like rain. Soon, I’ll be abandoned, unloved, AND soaking wet, so that’ll be-”

“Stop,” Steve said, laughing as he hopped out the back door of the truck. “Please. Just-” Tony was met him halfway, at the back door, and Steve shook his head. “Just stop.”

Tony grinned at him, broad and easy, and Steve’s heart still skipped a beat at that. The way that Tony’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he was really, truly smiling. The way that he stood, his chef’s whites unbuttoned and open over his rumpled Metallica t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as if he was utterly relaxed at that moment. The way his face softened when he looked at Steve, like it was okay, like everything was okay, like it would be okay.

Tony spread his arms. “C’mere,” he said, his voice gentle, as Steve went.

The hug was too long and too tight and too needy, and Steve still sank into it, a tension he hadn’t even been aware of bleeding out of him. He buried his face in Tony’s shoulder and took a deep breath. “God, I missed you.”

Tony stroked a hand over his hair. “We okay?” he whispered, and Steve nodded against his shoulder. “Okay.” Tony moved in his arms, and Steve’s grip tightened, an instinct he couldn’t quite resist. Tony kissed the side of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled, frustrated with himself. “Sorry, I-”

Before he could step away, Tony cupped a hand on the back of his neck, his fingertips rubbing against the skin there. “We’re not doing the apology thing,” he said, his voice warm. “Because if we start down that road, I’m going to be on the losing end, and I refuse.”

Steve grinned. “I could apologize and you could not,” he pointed out.

“I mean, that’s possible, but improbable, because I’m very competitive,” Tony said, his voice flat, and Steve choked on a laugh. “There we go, that’s much better.” He twisted his head to the side, just far enough to meet Steve’s eyes. “So. We had a tough couple of days, did we?”

Steve exhaled. “It wasn’t my best,” he agreed, his arms relaxing by stages, giving Tony enough room to breathe without relinquishing his hold entirely. “We did a little drinking, did we?”

“Oh, thank God,” Tony said, his head falling back. “You, too? I mean, I got plastered, but you’re usually much more-”

Laughing, Steve kissed him, his mouth swallowing whatever else Tony was trying to say, and the words tasted like coffee and sugar and chocolate. Steve exhaled against Tony’s cheek. “Someone got into the dessert course,” he whispered, and Tony laughed.

“I still have a hangover,” he said, rubbing a hand up and down the length of Steve’s back. “I still…” He shook his head. “Mother of all hangovers, Steve.”

“And chocolate helps?” Steve asked. He leaned into Tony’s body, needing the contact more than he wanted to admit.

“I mean, it’s an excuse to eat chocolate,” Tony said. “And I like having excuses.” He pressed a kiss to Steve’s neck, his beard rubbing against Steve’s skin. “You did a good job.”

Steve took a deep breath. “I didn’t, actually.”

Tony leaned back, meeting his eyes head on. “Yes. You did,” he said, his voice firm. “You told the truth. You spoke truth to power, and that’s never easy, and they make sure that’s never easy, but you did it, you spoke for people who have no voice, and you managed to not get arrested while doing it, so…” He smiled, and everything Steve had been looking for was there in his face. “Home run, Rogers.”

Steve’s eyes slid shut. “Right,” he managed. “Right.” Another deep breath, and another, and for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was choking. He opened his eyes. “So.”

Tony’s eyebrows arched. “So?”

“You just want a cookie, don’t you?” Steve managed, and Tony burst out laughing. Steve closed his eyes, and let the sound wash over him, and it was right, it was perfect. Perfect enough that he could take a step back, breaking the physical contact in slow, incremental movements, and not have it hurt. He caught Tony’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Come on. You can keep me company while I clean up.”

“I could help,” Tony offered.

Steve grabbed a crate from the back of the truck and dropped it on the pavement just next to the back door. “You are,” he said, squeezing Tony’s hand. “Sit.”

“Well, if you insist.” Tony sank down on the crate with a faint groan. He kicked his legs out in front of him and leaned his shoulders back against the truck, his head tipping in Steve’s direction. “Cookie?” he asked with big, hopeful eyes.

Steve grinned down at him. “No. You asked about Congress.”

“Technically, that only means I don’t get a FREE cookie,” Tony pointed out. Steve snagged a bottle of water out of the cooler, leaning out the back door to tap it against Tony’s cheek. His eyes closed, Tony reached up, fumbling with the bottle for a moment before he managed to get a grip on it. “God bless you, Rogers.”

“Less blessing, more drinking,” Steve told him. He reached for the cabinet of the cleaning supplies. “I saw your YouTube video.”

“You and everyone else on earth, including Rhodey’s mom,” Tony said. He held up the water bottle in a mock salute. “I’m nothing if not entertaining.”

Steve grinned down his own reflection in the gleaming countertop. “Uh-huh,” he said, wringing out the rag. “I take it someone tried to find a place to take DJ for dinner when he’s in town.”

“Bunch of useless, self-important, sanctimonious assholes,” Tony mumbled into his water bottle. “My kid’s got better taste than you. Hell, my kid can cook better than most of you.”

“Yes, yes, he can,” Steve said. He leaned back, glancing in Tony’s direction as he loaded bins into the refrigeration unit. “Stop trying to take him to fancy places, Tony.”

Tony nodded. “Fuck no.”

“I know a diner-” Steve started.

“We’re NOT going to Jersey,” Tony said.

Laughing, Steve kicked the door shut. “There are diners outside of New Jersey, Tony.”

“Yeah, but none of them are good,” Tony said. He peeled a strip of paper away from the label, flicking it away. “Don’t start a fight that you can’t finish, Steven.”

“How is this going to finish?” Steve asked.

“Battle to the death!” Tony said. 

Steve paused. “I’m not sure that diners in Jersey are the hill I want to die on,” he mused.

“And that’s why I win,” Tony said. He took another sip. “Customer.”

Steve looked out the front window of the truck as a slight, graceful woman with a shock of platinum white hair tumbling over her forehead. It was shaved close on the sides and teased up on top, leaving her multitude of earrings on each ear on full view. She was wearing a short black skirt with a lopsided hem covered in glittering stars, and a loose fitting silver and gold tank top. Half a dozen multicolored scarves were wrapped around her neck and shoulders, floating behind her like smoke as she walked.

“Sorry, I’m all closed up for the night,” Steve said, as she paused in front of his chalkboard, her head tipped to the side. “I’ve still got water and some cookies.”

Bright eyes darted in his direction, and she gave him a winning smile. “Cool. I’ll take one of each.” She braced an arm on the edge of the window, leaning to the side. “Hey, Tony.”

Tony raised his water bottle. “Evening.”

Her smile just got wider. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

He thought about that, his eyebrows arching. “Nope,” he said at last.

She laughed as Steve handed over the napkin wrapped cookie and a bottle of water. “Right.” She reached for her purse. “Allison Blair. I’m with-”

“New York Now,” Tony finished with her. He pointed the water bottle at her. “Right. Right. You’ve got my number.”

“In more ways than one, I’m starting to think,” she said. She grinned up at Steve, and there was glitter around her eyes, pale blue and silver. She handed up a five dollar bill. “Put the rest in your sandwich fund, or, you know, your campaign chest.”

Steve looked at the bill, then at her, and then back at the five. “My what?”

“Oh, can I be your campaign manager?” Tony asked, sitting up straight on his crate. “I specialize in pointed barbs and smear tactics.”

“Yeah, I saw your YouTube video,” Allison said. “The statement you gave me this morning played well, in case you were worried.”

“I was not, but always pleased to hear that someone doesn’t want to punch me in the face,” Tony said. “Balances my karma a bit for the many, many people who do.”

“Yeah, well, looking at the comment section-”

“Don’t ever do that,” Steve muttered, punching the keys on his register with more force than was strictly necessary.

“I stick with the upvoted ones,” Allison said. She took a bite of the cookie. “Works out pretty well, most of the time. Anyway, the majority of the upvoted comments are offers of free food at just about ever taco truck and noodle shop in the city.”

“Tempting, but, kinda defeats the purpose of paying people a fair wage, wouldn’t you think?” Tony drained the last of his water. “I remain a man of the people. Even while drunk.”

“Your twitter feed is on fire,” she pointed out.

Tony stopped in the middle of dropping the empty bottle in Steve’s recycling bin. “It’s fine, what are you-” He stopped. “Oh. That twitter feed.”

She licked some chocolate off of her thumb. “‘That’ twitter feed?”

“He has two,” Steve said, pulling down the rest of the signs. “You’re reading the public one. He… He doesn’t run that one.”

“Oh.” She looked at Tony. “Who does?”

“Fuck if I know,” Tony said. “Probably Parker. Parker has a strange amount of loyalty to me and a vested interest in me not looking like an asshole, or at least not a stupid asshole, so…” He shrugged. “Probably Parker.”

She nodded. “Can I have-”

“Nope,” he said with a broad smile.

“Yeah, it was worth a try.” Allison dug into her purse and came up with her phone. She pressed the record button and held it up so Steve could see it. “I was very impressed with how you handled your congressional testimony, Mr. Rogers.”

“That makes one of us,” Steve said.

Her teeth flashed in a quick,bright smile. “Do you have a comment for our-”

“People need to eat and when governments attempt to control and confine the feeding of the poor to sanctioned locations, chosen for their convenience and minimum disruption to the convenience of the monied and powerful, then they are sacrificing the health and well-being of their most vulnerable populations for a matter of public preception.” He smiled. “Every one of them would should be held accountable for the damage that they’re doing, and moreover, they should not be shocked when their own people step up to oppose them at every turn.”

Allison blinked. “Was that…” Her eyes darted towards Tony. “Was that a prepared speech?”

Tony shook his head. “No, he just does that.” He gestured in Steve’s direction. “He’s just…” He nodded. “Like that.”

“All right.” She braced a hand on the edge of his window. “What’re the chances you’ll come on and-”

“No,” Steve said. He softened that with a tight smile. “Thank you, ma’am. But no. I’m-” He shoved a hand through his hair, pulling a bit harder than was necessary. “I’m not interested.”

Tony leaned in. “Go get Sam. Sam likes exposure,” he said, in a stage whisper. “And Steve is incapable of saying no to Sam.”

“He’s already signed for our Food Truck Fridays segment,” Allison said. She held the phone in Tony’s direction. “Do you have a statement?”

“I gave you my statement, face down in my pillow,” Tony pointed out.

“Yeah, on your viral video. Not his viral video.” She wiggled her phone in his direction. “Statement?”

Tony leaned in, and cleared his throat. “I’ve never been prouder to say that I know exactly where his mouth has been,” he said. He grinned, wide and wicked and perfect. “And where it’s going to be-”

“I’ll talk to you on camera if you delete that now,” Steve said, bracing his hands on his counter. His face felt like it was on fire, and judging by the impish, brilliant smile she gave him, it was obvious, even in the low light. “Right. Now.”

Tony leaned up against the truck, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m hurt, I’m just trying to show my unending support for-”

“I’m so close to breaking up with you right now, you have no idea,” Steve told him, and it was so obviously a lie that Tony just grinned up at him, brilliant and beautiful. Steve scowled back. “Don’t push it.”

“He adores me,” Tony said to Allison.

“And I can see why.” She flicked a thumb across the face of her phone. “Deleted, Mr. Rogers. Don’t worry about it, I’m not going to blackmail you into having a little coffee klatch with me.” She glanced up. “Though, honestly, that, uh, ‘statement’ reflects more on him than it does on you, so-”

“And that’s why he cares.” Tony pushed himself away from the truck. “Sure, he can put on a mean face when staring down a six term Republican senator who cut funding for school lunches three terms in a row-”

“I cannot BELIEVE-” Steve said, and Tony reached back over his shoulder to pat him on the arm.

“Yes, darling, he’s… We’re donating freely to his opponent in the next election,” Tony said. “He’s a soft touch, Ms. Blair.”

Allison looked past him. “Come on my show,” she said to Steve, her eyes huge and pleading. “You can reveal all the embarrassing things he never wants the world to know.”

“It’s so cute you think that he’s figured out any of my secrets,” Tony mused.

She gave him a look, her eyes narrowed into brilliant slits, even as she held out a pale, tasteful card to Steve. “I bet he knows more than you’d like him to,” she said, her voice silken. Tony rocked on the balls of his feet, but said nothing. She turned to Steve. “Call me.”

He looked down at the card. When he tilted it, a holographic gleam rolled across the surface. “I just might,” he said.

*

It was harder than it should’ve been to get the front door open.

“This is nice,” Tony said, barely noticing when the keys slipped out of his hand and clattered to the front porch. He sank a hand into Steve’s hair, tugging his head down. “This is… Let’s just stay here.”

“Inside,” Steve said, his hands sliding down Tony’s back.

Tony grinned against his mouth. “Takes effort. Here. We’re-”

“Not having sex on your front porch, Tony,” Steve muttered into Tony’s throat, his mouth hot and desperate. 

Tony leaned into his body, enjoying the ache of it. “Yeah, well, then you figure out the door, because it’s been a long few days and I’m-”

In one fluid movement, Steve pulled away, leaned over, snagged the keys, jammed them into the lock and wrenched the door open. Laughing, Tony tried to step aside, but Steve tossed his keys in the general direction of the hallway table and wrapped an arm around his waist. “This is very good for my ego,” Tony said, struggling to keep his breathing under control. “Really. This is-”

“Glad I can help,” Steve said, his hands on Tony’s ass. Laughing, Tony gave a little hop, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist. Steve took his weight without even seeming to notice it, kicking the front door shut behind them as he stormed towards the bedroom.

Tony did his best to slow him down, just purely for the pleasure of it, nuzzling his neck and kissing the line of his throat, moving down to his collarbone. “Bed,” Steve mumbled against Tony’s hair, determined and distracted all at once.

“I mean, we could-” Steve rocked forward, pressing him up against the wall, his weight pinning Tony in place. His shoulder bounced against the wall, and it protested, the skin going white hot for an instant, just long enough to clear his head.. Tony wrenched his mouth away from Steve’s, sucking in air like he was drowning, his vision going a bit blurry on the edges. All of a sudden, Steve seemed perfectly content to stay right where he was, his hands tight on Tony’s ass, his face buried in Tony’s neck. “Bed,” Tony managed, his fingers digging into Steve’s shoulders. “Let’s- Bed.”

He felt, as much as heard, Steve laugh against his throat and thumped at his shoulder with one closed fist. “Sex now, mocking later,” he said.

Steve looked up, his eyes dancing. “I think I’m capable of doing both at once,” he pointed out, his voice stern. He hipchecked the bedroom door open. “Let’s bed.”

“I don’t have to put up with this, you know. I have other places I could be right now,” Tony said, and they both knew it was a lie. 

Steve’s hands tightened on his ass, just for an instant, and then he tumbled Tony gently back onto the bed. Bracing one knee on the bed, he leaned over Tony, his expression soft. “I’ll try to make it worth your time,” he said, and Tony leaned up to kiss him.

A shoe hit the floor, and another, solid thunks against the wooden floor, and Tony was preoccupied with getting Steve’s pants off. Steve’s hands slid up under Tony’s shirt, his fingers spread wide against his skin, and Tony caught his wrist. “Leave it,” he mumbled against Steve’s mouth. “Just. Pants.”

Steve laughed. “I like you naked,” he said, and Tony shuddered.

“You know, you’ve ruined me for dirty talk forever, I hope you know that, I used to be so blase about the whole thing,” he grumbled, pulling Steve’s belt free with a twist of his wrist. “Suck this, slap that, yatta yatta yatta.”

Steve was laughing against his chest, his fingers tight on Tony’s hips. “Yatta yatta?” he managed, and Tony grinned at nothing in particular. 

“And then there’s you and you say these little things, and you mean them, and-” He rolled Steve over, his knees on either side of Steve’s hips, his hands braced next to his head. “You’ve ruined me.”

Steve smiled up at him, full of warmth and affection. “Am… Am I supposed to be apologizing here?” he asked, and Tony leaned over, kissing him hard.

“Not necessary, but always appreciated,” Tony said. Steve’s hands were creeping up under his shirt again, and Tony arched back. “Leave it- I’ve got-”

Under him, Steve went still. “Why.”

Tony froze, his hands on the waistband of his pants. “Why?” he repeated, blinking at Steve. “What do you mean, why?”

Steve sat up, rocking Tony back into his lap. “Why?” he repeated, and there was a strained note in his voice now. “What happened? Are you hurt? What did you-”

“I’m not-” Tony choked on a laugh. “Jesus. Calm down.” He cupped Steve’s face between his palms, and leaned in for a kiss. “I’m fine. I promise, I’m fine.”

Steve’s fingers stroked at his waist, twitching up under the fabric of his shirt. “Did you-”

Tony’s head fell back. “I’m- I’m feeling fat, okay, can you just lie back and-”

Steve blinked at him. “What?”

Tony nudged at his shoulders. “Lie back and-”

Steve didn’t budge. “All right, so first of all-”

“Oh, God,” Tony said, his head dropping to Steve’s shoulder. “Stop. First of all, can we go with no? Stop? Make it-”

Steve slipped a hand under his chin, bringing his head up. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too, but I know your ‘time for a discussion’ face and it’s my least favorite face you make,” Tony pointed out. “Can we just-”

“You’re not fat, and even if you were, it wouldn’t change how I felt about you,” Steve said, as if Tony hadn’t said a word. “Health wise, I am a bit concerned about your cholesterol levels, because your eating habits are kind of terrifying and-”

“If you bring up kale in my bed, we will be breaking up,” Tony told him, and Steve reached up, his fingers gentle, almost reverent, on Tony’s cheek.

“I love you,” he said, and Tony’s chest ached as if the words had been a physical force.

“You are a real piece of work, you know that, Rogers?” he managed, and his voice sounded tight and shaky to his ears.

Steve kissed him. “Keep it on, if you want, but-” He exhaled against the hollow of Tony’s throat. “Kale smoothie for breakfast.”

Tony choked on a laugh. “Fine. Fine.” Tony stripped his shirt over his head, barely wincing as his shoulder protested the movement. He tossed it aside. “I’ll just have to break up with you before the blender comes out.”

Steve reached up, gently touching the edge of the gauze that was visible over the top of Tony’s shoulder. His eyes darted to Tony’s, and Tony sighed. “I don’t know if you noticed the state of Mjolnir,” he said with a wry smile. “But there was a small altercation.”

Steve’s lips twitched. “Funny, that’s not how Thor described it.”

“Yes, well, Thor likes to exaggerate when it comes to destruction and general chaos,” Tony pointed out. “There was a bar fight, and some people might tell you I started it, I’d like to make it clear that this is both a lie and a slur on my character, and-”

“What happened, Tony?” Steve asked, cutting him off.

Tony sighed. “I didn’t duck quite fast enough,” he said, because all of that was entirely true. And entirely unrelated to the tattoo on his shoulder, but that was a conversation he was going to put off for as long as humanly possible. “I’m fine.”

Steve stroked a finger over Tony’s bottom lip. “Promise?” he asked and there was a wry note to his voice that made Tony’s chest ache.

Tony caught his hand and pressed a kiss against his palm. “Promise,” he said, and gave Steve a brisk shove. “On your back. And I’ll show you just how fine I feel.”

This time, Steve went, falling willingly back onto the pillows. He grinned up at Tony. “Looking forward to it.”

Tony grinned back. “You and me both.”

*

He woke in the small hours of the morning, squinting against the sunlight that filtered in through the mostly closed curtains. Grumbling to himself, Tony tried to roll over. The sheets tangled around his chest, and he flailed at them with one arm, finally getting himself free. There was an odd, sharp pull at his shoulder, and then he was free.

Steve shifted next to him, and Tony flopped onto his stomach, trying to block out the light. He heard Steve chuckle, and considered flipping him off. But raising his arm just seemed like too much work, so he wrapped his arms around his pillow, snuggling down into the depths of his pillow

He felt Steve’s fingers, gentle and familiar, trace a curious path across the back of his shoulder. Something stirred in the depths of his sleep-addled brain, something that he should’ve been concerned about, but he was asleep again before he could figure out just what it was.

*

Steve leaned up against the wall, his head tipped forward, focusing on his feet as the phone rang. He shifted it to his other hand, doing his best not to drop it or the paper bag in his other hand, never lifting his head up. He counted the rings and considered disconnecting the line with every single one.

His finger was hovering over the little red phone icon when the call went through. “Hello,” Rhodey said, and Steve swung the phone back to his cheek.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s Steve. Steve Rogers?”

“Yeah, I know.” Rhodey’s voice sounded amused. “You’re in my phone, Steve. Got your own contact and everything.”

Steve caught himself smiling. “What, no custom ringtone?”

“Not since Tony last managed to reprogram the whole damn thing,” Rhodey said. “And his tastes in music are both bad, and loud.” 

Steve choked on a laugh. “I’d ask, but I’m too afraid to-”

“You should be,” Rhodey said. “One sec, I’ve got-” There was a muffled sound of footsteps and something rattling, and then he was back. “Yeah, sorry about that, I was just getting out of the shower, don’t want to leave the towel in the middle of the floor.” The coffee pot beeped in the background. “What’s up, Steve?”

Steve took a deep breath. “Wondered if you have a moment to be…” He stopped, his mouth going tight. “I don’t know how to ask this, I’m sorry, I should-”

“You need to talk Tony with someone who won’t judge you,” Rhodey said, and Steve stopped dead.

“I’d like…” He chose his words carefully. “A second opinion on what he’s thinking.”

“I’d say, you should ask him, but I’ve known him long enough to know that that’s not as easy as it seems,” Rhodey said. “Sure. You want to meet somewhere for breakfast, or-”

“You’re still at Tony’s penthouse, aren’t you?” Steve asked. He pinned the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, checking on the paper bag. “I can come over.”

“Sure, when will you-”

“I’m outside in the hallway,” Steve said in a rush.

There was a moment of pause, and Rhodey let out a little chuckle. “Of course you are.”

“Sorry,” Steve said. The door opened, and he looked over, a sheepish smile on his face. “Yeah, I’m…” His shoulders rose in a shrug. “Sorry.”

Rhodey leaned out, a cup of coffee held in front of his face. He arched an eyebrow. “If I hadn’t picked up,” he said, hanging up the call with a flick of his thumb, “would you have jumped me on my way out of the building?”

“I’d say no,” Steve said, pushing away from the wall. “But I’m desperate, so…” He thrust the bag at Rhodey. “I brought breakfast.”

Rhodey took it. “God bless you,” he said. He looked up. “Know what Tony’s got in here?”

“Party food and freezer burned frozen waffles?” Steve asked.

“Gluten free frozen waffles,” Rhodey said. “Which, you know, it’s a good thing they’re available, for the people who need them, but-”

“But you’re not one of them,” Steve finished for him.

“I am not,” Rhodey agreed. He lead the way back through the penthouse to the kitchen, Steve following close behind him. “I mean, he’s got enough coffee here to stave off sleep for a decade or so, but if you’d like to eat something, your choices are frozen canapes, cans of nuts and bags of pretzels.”

“I’ve eaten worse for breakfast,” Steve admitted, pulling a chair away from the breakfast bar. “But knowing the state of this place-” He nodded at the bag in Rhodey’s hand. “I did bring an offering.”

Rhodey unrolled the top of the bag. “Right.” His eyebrows arched. “Are these croissants?”

Steve’s fingers beat against the polished marble top of the counter. “With homemade apricot jam inside,” he said, as Rhodey pulled one apart. It ripped in half, layers of whisper thin, flakey pastry giving way to the golden yellow jam at its center. “They should still be warm.”

Rhodey took a bite, and his eyes closed. For a moment he just stood there, chewing, and then he reached up, covering his mouth with one hand. “Holy fuck,” he mumbled through his fingers.

Steve grinned. “Yeah, they’re… They’re really good.” He stood, heading for the coffee pot. “There’s four in the bag, I’d say don’t eat them all at once, but that’s a lot easier said than done.”

When he came back, cup of coffee in hand, Rhodey was sitting at the counter, peeling a strip of pastry from the top of the croissant. He popped it in his mouth. “It… It almost melts.”

“There is a terrifying amount of butter in it,” Steve said. He took a sip of his coffee. “You can never tell Tony I gave them to you.”

“I mean, if it means I might get them again, I’m willing to live that lie,” Rhodey said. He looked up at Steve, setting the rest of the croissant on a napkin. “So. What’s he done?”

Steve bit back a smile. “Nothing,” he said. “Or-” He stopped. “It’s not his fault, I think, I just-”

Rhodey wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, his fingers smoothing against the porcelain. “What’s he done?” he repeated with a fond smile.

Steve took a deep breath. “Was he drunk when he got the tattoo?”

Rhodey’s eyes went wide. “Ah. Right.” He set the coffee cup down in front of him, the movement careful. “That.”

Steve set his coffee cup down before he spilled it. Or snapped the handle off. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That.”

With a sigh, Rhodey leaned back in his chair. “Are you… Bothered by it?” he asked, and Steve got the feeling he was choosing his words very, very carefully.

Not that Steve was going off the cuff on this, either. “I…” He stopped. “I don’t want my reaction to it to weigh in his decision here,” he said at last. “He clearly didn’t want me to see it, it happened accidentally, and if he’s upset about it, or mad, I don’t want to make him feel worse.” He looked up. “If he got it when he was drunk and now he regrets it and he’s going to get it removed, I don’t want to…”

He stopped again, and Rhodey said there, waiting patiently. “It’s his body,” Steve said at last. “And I don’t want to pressure him. Either way.”

Rhodey nodded. “But you’re okay with it.”

Steve felt his cheeks heat, and he focused on taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah. I’m-” He did his best not to think about the early morning sunlight playing across Tony’s back, golden and warm, and the way the tattoo, still new and a bit raw, looked less like a wound than he would’ve thought. 

He looked up. “It’s his body,” he repeated. “I don’t get an opinion on what he does with it.”

“I mean, yeah, that’s true,” Rhodey said, wobbling a hand through the air. “But I think every one of us that gets a new hair cut or tries a new way of dressing or, you know, gets a piercing or a tattoo, we all do want approval on that, don’t we? We want someone to tell us we made a good choice, that we’ve got good taste, that we’re smart and classy and stylish, right?”

He reached for his croissant. “Especially someone we love. No body’s getting a new hair cut and going home and hoping for ‘well, that’s something you chose to do and I support you in your body autonomy,’” he said, his voice grim. Steve hid his smile behind this coffee cup, and Rhodey grinned at him. “Yeah, i see that. You think you’re sneaky, but you’re not.” He pointed the croissant at Steve. “Yeah. He was drunk. But it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing, it was a design his artist already had.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was just wary of how it looks, you know?”

Steve nodded. “She did a good job. It looks great.”

“Right, yeah, I meant, how it looks as a-” Rhodey rubbed the back of his neck. “How it looks as a gesture, Steve. I think Tony sees is as a very ‘first serious college relationship’ kind of a thing. You fall head over heels in love and next thing you know, you’ve got someone’s name on your ass, and that’s- That’s something the other person may not like, or may like a little too much, you know?

“So. If you’re asking me what he’s thinking?” Rhodey asked. Steve nodded. “Then I think he got what he wanted and now he’s wondering how you’ll take it.” His face relaxed into a grin. “But I’d also say that since you seem as panicky about it as he is, then it’ll be fine.”

“I’m not… Panicky,” Steve said. “Sure, I got up obscenely early to handmake croissants in an attempt to bribe you, but that’s something I do normally.”

Rhodey brinned. “Sure.” He finished the last of his croissant and reached for the bag. “You like it, though.”

“I like it,” Steve admitted. “It’s… It’s nice.” Which was a very vague way of dealing with his very complicated feelings. “But it’s not like any of his others, so I was… Concerned.”

“Sure it is,” Rhodey said. He shifted the bag, squinting into the depths, before coming up with the fattest of the pastries. He sniffed at it, a look of bliss flickering over his face. “First one on his back, I guess, but still, this is what he does. He gets ink.”

“Yeah, but it’s mostly food, isn’t it?” Steve asked, his fingers tapping against his coffee cup. “Sure, it’s not my name, but this is the first one that’s just-” His voice trailed away. 

“Oh.” Rhodey paused, the croissant halfway to his mouth. His eyes were wide as he lowered it back to the napkin “Oh.”

“Oh?” Steve repeated.

 

“You don’t know,” Rhodey said. He pushed the croissant aside and reached for his coffee cup, then slumped back into his seat. “Steve. All of his ink, every piece of it, they’re all people.”

Steve looked up, surprise floating through him. “What?”

Rhodey smiled. “All of his tattoos are, well, to put it bluntly, once you know the code, they might as well be names.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Yours is, well, it’s a bit more obvious than most, but every thing he’s gotten, they’re all people.”

“Most of them are food,” Steve said, spreading his hands wide.

“Sure, but when food is your- When it’s that central, you are full of associations.” He held up the croissant. “You didn’t learn to make these from a book.”

Steve shook his head. “No.”

“When you make them, when you taste one, is that all tied up in the person who taught you?” Rhodey asked. “On some level, can you fully separate the gift of the recipe, of the knowledge of how you make it, from the person who gave it to you first?”

Steve thought about that. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried,” he admitted. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his hands folded between them. “It never occured to me to try.”

“My grandmother is cherries,” Rhodey said. “She’d gather them, by the bushel, and sit there, pitting them for pies.” He peeled a strip of the croissant away, popping it into his mouth. “I remember her, fingers stained with the juice, red on the tea towels and coating the old glass bowls. I remember the scent, sweet and heavy and-” He shook his head. “Her pies were, they were unbelievable. She tried to teach me, but I never had the knack.” He looked at his fingers. “Still can pit a cherry faster than anyone you ever met, though.”

“How’re you at oyster shucking?” Steve asked.

“Horrible,” Rhodey said with a grin. “But stone fruit? I’m your man.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said.

“We have associations. Things we hold onto,” Rhodey said. “And Tony, well, it’s food, it’s always food.” He drained the rest of his coffee and stood, heading back to the pot. “So I’ll give you a hint. You’ll find me on Tony’s right wrist.” He smiled. “Think of that as your Rosetta stone, and work from there.”

Steve nodded. ‘Thank you. For talking to me.”

Rhodey saluted him with his cup. “Steve? You bring these things? And I’ll give you whatever intel you need.” He picked up the croissant and took a healthy bite. “Whatever you want to know.”

*

“Kingyo,” Tony said, his knife slicing through the head of broccoli, separating it into neat, bite sized florets. He rubbed a thumb across the top, testing it for firmness before he swept it all into the bowl of ice water to soak. He chopped the stems with quick, efficient strokes. He looked at the tablet that was propped up next to cutting board. “C’mon, give me something hard. You’re babying me, and I know it, and I rather resent it, I can handle it, let’s see what you got.”

DJ shuffled through his flashcards, his mouth pursed as he considered two of them. His head swung between them, his expression considering. Doing his best to hide his smile, Tony waited for him to make up his mind, and reached for an onion. He should probably find his mandolin. He rolled his knife in his hand, rotating his wrist. He probably should, but he wasn’t going to.

Smiling to himself, he went to work, slicing into the onion with one swift, clean stroke.

On the tablet, DJ made his choice, holding up a flash card with a broad smile. Tony paused, leaning in to squint at it. “What… What is that? I don’t know what that is in English, let alone Japanese, what the heck, kid, dial it back.”

“Said hard,” DJ pointed out, his voice smug.

“And you were prepared for that with a picture of-” Tony gestured at the screen. “What IS that, kid?”

“Iriomote cat.”

Tony looked over his shoulder in time to see Steve come wandering into the kitchen, his hair a tumbled mess and his expression still sleepy. “Great,” Tony said. “And what is that in Japanese?”

“Iriomote-yamaneko,” Steve said, yawning. He wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, leaning into his back, his chin resting on Tony’s shoulder. “Ohayōgozaimasu, DJ-kun.”

“Ohayōgozaimasu,” DJ said with a grin.

Tony leaned back into the solid warmth of Steve’s body. “And how, exactly, do you know this?” he asked, his head tipping in Steve’s direction.

“We send texts with cute cat pictures,” Steve said. 

“Of course you do,” Tony said, shaking his head. The onions piled up in front of him in neat, precise crescents. “Stop upstaging me. This is my Japanese lesson, not yours, go turn on the stove so I can blanche my broccoli.”

Steve laughed. “Yes, chef,” he said, and the moment he moved, Tony missed the heat of his body. 

Hitomi appeared behind him, studying Tony through the lens of the tablet. “Has he done his studies?” 

“No,” DJ said, gathering up his flashcards. He gave Tony a look. “No.”

“Listen, buddy, I’m trying, I can barely speak English, and I’m trying,” Tony said, grinning down at his cutting board. 

Hitomi frowned at him, despite the glint in her eye. “Try harder,” she said .

Tony inclined his head in a half-bow. “Hai,” he said. He glanced at the stove. “Thanks for the recipe, I’ll get this one down before I ask for another one.”

“My mother would be amused to know who is cooking her food,” Hitomi said. She stroked a hand over DJ’s head. “Will you help me weed the garden now?” DJ nodded with a grin, and she smiled down at him. “Thank you. You are my best helper. Best boy.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Say good-bye to your father. He will call tomorrow.”

“When?” DJ asked.

“Eight pm,” Tony said. The same time he always called. Regular as clockwork. The one appointment he never missed. But he could hear the faint strain in DJ’s voice when he asked, when he looked for confirmation, and so he repeated it. “Eight pm tomorrow. Before bed. But if you need me, when can you call me?”

“Any time,” DJ said, and Tony nodded.

“Any time,” he agreed. “I love you.”

“Love you,” DJ said. He held up a flashcard. “One more.”

“Inu,” Tony said, pointing his knife at the card. “That, I know.”

“Study,” DJ told him.

“Right, right, go weed the garden, and save me some pickles,” Tony said with a grin. “Say good bye, Steve.”

“Jaa ne,” Steve called from the stove. “See you!”

“Someone’s been listening to podcasts again,” Tony said, he waved at DJ and waited for him to cut the connection before he turned to face Steve. “Haven’t you?”

Steve shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind going to Japan someday,” he said, his voice airy as he checked the boiling water. “What’re you making?”

“Recipe that Hitomi gave me,” Tony said, sweeping the onions into a pile. “I’m trying to learn some of DJ’s favorites. This is a chicken an vegetable, well, it’s a stew of sorts,” he said. “In creamy white sauce. So it’s pretty much custom made for a small person who prefers his food comforting and familiar.” He waved a hand in Steve’s direction. “Or my difficult supertaster.”

Steve ran a spoon through the sauce, and Tony intercepted him. “Stop licking my food,” he said, laughing as he took the spoon out of Steve’s hand. “For heaven’s sake.”

Laughing, Steve stepped back, letting Tony muscle his way into the space in front of the stove. He didn’t go far, though, just waited until Tony was stirring the sauce before he wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, leaning into his back. “Do I ever get to taste it?” he asked, his chin on Tony’s shoulder.

“We’ll see. Depends on how it turns out,” Tony said, moving the spoon through the white sauce. Steve reached out, brushing a fingertip against the inside of Tony’s wrist. Laughing, Tony twitched his hand away. “Can I help you?” 

“What kind of fish is this?” Steve asked, and Tony looked down at the intricate ink of a fish, caught in mid-turn. Its tail was flicking through the water, leaving a trail of bean-shaped bubbles around it.

He looked back at his sauce. “Cod,” he said, his head down.

“Codfish. And beans.” Steve nodded. “You met Rhodey at boarding school, didn’t you? In Boston.”

“The worst years of his life,” Tony said, as Steve’s fingers stroked up his wrist, tickling the sensitive skin of his inner arm. “Excuse me, I’m trying to cook here.”

Steve’s index finger settled on the inside of his elbow, on the pizza slice there, overloaded with toppings and leaving strings of cheese to trail free of the crust. “Always thought the pizza was self-explanatory,” Steve mused. “With your history in New York, and Big Star.”

“You can either resent your status as the pizza heir, or you can embrace it,” Tony said. He lifted the lid on the steamer. “Besides, everyone likes pizza.” Since Steve made no effort to move, he gestured at the broccoli. “Hand me that, please.”

Steve passed the bowl over, and Tony took it with his left hand. Steve rubbed his thumb over the ink on the inside of Tony’s left arm. “Garlic, basil, tomato,” he said, his thumb following the pale drizzle of olive oil that traced the skin around the other images. 

Tony turned his arms up, pizza next to some of its core ingredients. “Balance,” he said.

“Your parents,” Steve said, and Tony went still. Steve tapped his right elbow. “Your father’s company. And-” He tapped the left. “Your Sicillian mother.”

“It’s food, Steve,” Tony said, scooping broccoli, green and crisp, into the steamer basket. “Not that complicated.

“Right,” Steve said. He stroked a hand onto the inside of Tony’s left wrist. Five drops, arranged in a neat circle, pulled as if by the back of a spoon into a pinwheel shape against his skin. “This one, I spent so much time look at this one when we first got together, because clearly you were referencing plating, but-”

“The five mother sauces of French cuisine,” Tony said with a grin. “Name them.”

He felt Steve laugh against his back, even as his fingers walked the circle, touching each droplet in turn. “Béchamel. Velouté. Espagnole. Hollandaise.” He tapped the cherry red droplet. “And tomato.”

“Bien,” Tony said, setting the timer on the broccoli.

“And I thought, maybe Bruce, but-” Steve’s weight shifted, and he caught Tony’s right arm. “This is the chemical structure of, what?”

Tony grinned at the neat arrangement of chemical bonds. “Caffeine,” he said.

“Of course it is.” Steve shook his head. “So that’s Bruce, and that makes the mother sauces the person who told you you could leave. The only one who went with you when you left Big Star.”

“See the problem with your theory,” Tony said, “is that Pepper is already a food, so, well, it’s not-”

Steve kissed the side of his neck. “And this.” He touched the side of Tony’s left shoulder, high up, where it would be hidden by even a short sleeved shirt. Where he couldn’t see it. Three perfect pink balls, each wrapped in a dark green, saw-toothed leaf. “I looked these up, you know.”

Tony focused on his sauce. “Sakura mochi,” he said. “It’s…” He stopped. “Rumiko missed them. When she lived here. We flew to Japan once, all the way there for a day, and she took me to one famous shop after another, just… Gorging on them.”

He set the spoon aside. “And before you can ask, there used to be two. And the apple was added later, too.” The apple was half peeled already, the mottled red and yellow skin trailing around the three little sweets like a ribbon. “It seemed right.”

Steve was silent, his palm settling over the tattoo, cupping it in the hollow of his hand. Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the back of Tony’s shoulder, his breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. Tony swallowed, his heart pounding in his ears. “Knew I should’ve kept my shirt on.”

The timer went off, and he reached for the steamer basket. “Sorry if you’re creeped out by it,” he said, shaking the florets gently into the ice water bath. “I liked it. And it seemed appropriate.”

He turned in Steve’s arms and gave him a lopsided smile. “After all, you’ve had my back since we’ve met.”

Steve kissed him, and that was about the best reaction he could’ve hoped for. Tony wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders, kissing him back with all the force he could manage. Steve mumbled something against his mouth, and Tony pulled away. “What?”

Steve blinked at him, his blue eyes dark. “I like it,” he said, his cheeks pink. He cleared his throat, and it didn’t seem to help, he still sounded a bit raw when he tried again. “I mean, I designed it, so of course I like it, it’s not-” He stopped, and Tony grinned at him. Steve sighed. “I love you and you got my truck logo tattooed on your back.”

Tony nodded, relief making the whole thing just seem ridiculous. “Yeah. That’s… That’s something I did. And it wasn’t even the stupidest thing I did in the last few days.” He took a deep breath. “I should’ve talked to you about it, before I did it, and I intended to, but then, well…” He held his hand up in front of his face and made a ‘drinky-drinky’ motion. “I got stupid.”

“You can talk to me if you want, but I like your tattoos,” Steve said. 

“All of them?” Tony asked, hating that need for reassurance, but giving into it anyway.

Steve leaned in, pressing a very light kiss on Tony’s lips. “All of them,” he whispered, and Tony arched up into him, kissing him back with all the force he could manage. Steve kissed him back, his arms wrapped tight around Tony’s waist. But as the kiss deepened, one hand slipped up, to rest just over the tattoo, and Tony smiled against his mouth.

Tony leaned back, just far enough to meet Steve’s eyes. “Want me to take my shirt off?”

“No.” Steve shifted his weight, and Tony never got tired of seeing him blush. “I mean-” He shook his head. “No. You’re cooking.”

“Right?” Tony asked, and Steve gave him a look. “Look, I can keep my pants on, unless that’s a thing for you and I hadn’t figured out yet, because come on, we all want to break food safety rules once in a while, and I’m not cooking anything that spatters-”

“No,” Steve repeated, but he was laughing now, his hands tight on Tony’s waist. “Can you stop, it’s- No.”

Tony considered him. “Naked except for an apron?” he asked, and Steve made a pained, helpless little noise. “Right. Come pick one out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly a year ago, Sam and I commissioned Grumpycakes to do little drawings of Foodieverse!Steve and Tony. Sam went... Horribly hipster in his (don't you @ me, Starbuck, that mustache is a travesty) and I asked for a Tony more reminiscent of Anthony Bourdain, who had died just a few months before. I liked the idea of Tony collecting ink, especially on his arms, where he would see it when he rolled up his sleeves to cook. All the bits of his culinary history, some of the people who got him to this point in his life.
> 
> https://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/177430280051/copperbadge-grumpycakes-i-got-commissioned-by
> 
> The idea stuck with me, and this came out of the need to trace a bit of his history in that way. I understand they hadn't been mentioned before, so they may throw some people. To head off the 'where did Tony's tattoos come from?' comments, the answer is this.
> 
> Mel drew a Tony who looked like he'd been around, and most of his ink was suggested by me, but has since been refined in my mind. 8)


End file.
